


Tourniquet

by Drbwho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 65
Words: 67,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drbwho/pseuds/Drbwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark's mother gave her an address. A name. Petyr Baelish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. address

**Author's Note:**

> **VISUAL AIDS**  
>   
> 
> stunning and perfect tourniquet gifsets made by the amazing tumblr user thefudge (you MUST look; they are truly gorgeous):
> 
> [visual aid I](http://thefudge.tumblr.com/post/95379637333/fanfic-au-tourniquet-by-myrandar-sansa)  
>    
> [visual aid II](http://thefudge.tumblr.com/post/103941603153/fanfic-au-tourniquet-part-ii-by-myrandar)
> 
>    
> Lyannasnow has made some perfect edits for my writing, and here is the glorious one for Tourniquet:  
> [visual aid I](http://lyannasnow.tumblr.com/post/109947388342)
> 
>  
> 
> [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ezOLjihB6Qo) is AN ACTUAL TRAILER for the fic, made by Rabiosa J.  
>  
> 
> **MUSIC**
> 
> here's a fantastic playlist by the lovely tumblr user vitadulcedospes, have a listen [here](http://8tracks.com/megpie13/tourniquet)
> 
> and here's one by chaosvity, some really great stuff [here](http://myrandar.tumblr.com/post/110360868318/chaosvity-tourniquet-playlist-x-sansa)  
>  
> 
>   **non-chapter drabbles:**
> 
> [ anon prompt: sansa dances for petyr](http://myrandar.tumblr.com/post/99804061028/anon-prompt-petyr-and-sansa-tourniquet-verse)
> 
> [ holiday drabble](http://myrandar.tumblr.com/post/105296546893/soooo-i-wrote-a-holiday-drabble-for-the-tourniquet)
> 
> [ anon prompt for 1000 kudos: truth or dare](http://myrandar.tumblr.com/post/119757071728/petyr-and-sansa-tourniquet-prompt-nearly-at-1000)
> 
>    
> ______________________________________________________________________________________________________  
>  
> 
> and now you’ve lost, there’s nothing left to defend  
>  you came so close to the king and all of his men 

Blood on her hands. Not hers.

They don’t tell you what shooting someone is really like. It’s not like the movies. A shot to the chest, depending on its location, doesn’t instantly kill a person. It doesn’t even knock them down right away, most times. Sansa was surprised then, when the boy came at her, barely bleeding from the hole in the middle of him.

She had sense enough to keep the gun in her stunned hands facing him, forcing another shot in his direction just as he made it to her form. His hands bruised her shoulders to support himself up, moving to her neck once he found his bearings. There he squeezed and pressed, causing the air to expel out of her with stridor.

It was the third shot, higher than the previous two, that led him down to the ground, but not before he left an imprint of himself on her light blue t-shirt and on her hands, grasping and clutching her arm, shirt, and finally only air as he lost his weakening hold.

He was still alive even then, writhing on the ground. Near death, he still looked more angry than in agony. He was defeated, underhandedly, by a girl who had snatched a weapon from one of his own men. He was furious until his last breath, cursing her, cursing her family. For a moment she watched him, the now-corpse unmoving and lifeless and still somehow not peaceful looking. Even in death he was a monster.

Her stomach began to pull and twist, nausea setting in at the sight of the gore in the room. Old blood, her ancestral blood mixing with Joffrey’s new blood. Covering the walls, the floors and _her_.

_I need to leave._

She ran up the stairs of her home without another glance at the blonde-haired body. Packing a small bag, changing her shirt, and wiping the blood off of her crimson digits while she ignored her own shivering. The gun she decided to store in the side pocket of a light black jacket she hastily slid on as she fled the house. Her home.

No. Not anymore.

_The crime scene._

 

**_192 Landing St_ **

****

They had executed them in front of her that morning in their living room. Her mother, father and brother. Lined up, one by one, she watched as she was held back by two Lannister men. Her father was first with a blow to the head, begging for the lives of his children. Next was Robb, her brother. He didn’t cry, didn’t beg. He just looked at Cat Stark, their mother, before the firing. They saved Cat for last, choosing to slit her throat instead. She could still hear the gurgling. Sansa had to be pulled back further as the blood from her family threatened to stain her shoes.

The woman making the orders reminded her, after each, that she was only alive because her son wanted her to be. The blonde, horrible boy. He said he loved her, would marry her. He said that this was her wedding present. He cackled. The dead boy had been so alive at the time, watching the massacre with hunger in his eyes. How long would it have been before he grew tired of her?

_Not long at all_ , she thought. It was better that she killed him, then. He would have used his imagination with her.

 

**_192 Landing St_ **

 

Her other siblings were safe, she suspected. Ned Stark had smuggled them out before the slaughter began. Bran and Rickon were taken far away by their eldest brother Jon. Somewhere out of the country, or so she thought. Even Ned hadn’t known where exactly. Arya was at a boarding school, but Sansa was able to send a message to run, to go somewhere she wouldn’t be found. Arya was resourceful; she could make it on her own for a while.

Sansa and Robb had been stuck. Robb worked too closely with the Lannisters and with Ned to make an escape without seeming suspicious. The same went for her. She had started dating Joffrey Lannister the year before. He had been kind to her, and their fathers had been friends. Both families encouraged the pair, at first.

At some point he couldn’t keep up the façade anymore. Presents to apologize for harsh words and kisses to her new purpling bruises became a standard. Sansa began to invest heavily in concealer. Soon she was considered his plaything. She was too afraid to tell her family about the beatings, the threats. Not until it was too late.

****

**_192 Landing St_ **

 

Right before they were taken, her mom had told her to seek a man out if she could flee and needed help. A _trustworthy_ man. The address was written quickly on a piece of paper, the name given to her was Petyr Baelish. She said the man was an old friend. He could help, would _have to_ help, if she could just get to him before the Lannisters found her. Sansa had memorized the location, repeating it over and over to be sure she wouldn’t forget.

 

**_192 Landing St_ **

 

It began raining halfway to her destination, making it deeper into the large city, toward an area she’d never been. She’d grown tired of running after a couple of miles, sure that no one was chasing her yet anyway. No one had known the two had gone back to her home. She threw her hood up and let the water soak her backpack and jeans. She was thankful for the water; it was almost cleansing to her.

When she finally arrived at the address, she had an urge to run. Maybe it would have been easier to have died with her family.


	2. bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you call it chivalry  
> never pull a punch for free

**_192 Landing St_ **

****

It was a strip club.

Even in the daylight, she knew even without the neon lights turned on. It wasn’t as loudly spelled out as some of the other ones around; the owner seemed to have a bit more taste or a bit less money. No “GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS” sign advertised, no animations of naked dancers. Still, Sansa assumed there would be scantily-clad women standing outside the large black metal door come nightfall, trying to convince lonely men to come inside and buy them drinks.

And then more than drinks.

Sansa was naïve, but still knew this could not have been what her mother intended when she gave her the paper. Perhaps she had the wrong numbers? Maybe the man she sought had moved in the time since her mother had spoken with him. Regardless, she decided she could at least ask the current owner if he knew what had happened to the man she was searching for.

The sign on the door told her it would be several hours before the establishment was open for business. Of course it wasn't open yet; habits like these usually lived in the darkness, waiting for the sun to set for the day. She tried her luck and wrapped her knuckles against the cold barrier anyway.

After two rounds of knocking the door was opened; a sleepy-looking redhead with a thin and very nearly see-through crimson robe opened the door. “We aren’t open yet-“she started, before realizing that it a girl at the door, not a customer. “What do you need, little girl?”

“I’m looking for someone.” Sansa practically stuttered the words, averting her gaze from the woman’s figure. “Petyr Baelish.”

The woman started at the name, opening the door wider and gesturing for her to enter. As soon as she was inside the woman gripped one of her shoulders, strong despite her delicate looking frame and porcelain complexion. “How do you know that name?”

As terrified as the girl felt, she didn’t let it show, standing as firm as she could in the woman’s arm. “I was told to come here. I need to speak with him.”

“He’s not here at the moment.” She eyed Sansa skeptically. “He’ll be back tonight.”

“Can I wait here until then?” _I don’t have anywhere else to go._

The woman sighed audibly. “Yeah, go ahead. You can wait upstairs. Down the hall and to the left. Don’t go near the bar on your way up." She let her go, straightening her robe and beginning to walk away. "I’ll be there in a second.”

Sansa nodded and headed in the direction she indicated, scanning the interior. The hall branched off into several rooms, doors closed, until the end of the walkway. There, a clean, well-lit bar veered to the right where she went left. It was modern looking, a sleek counter with various bottles of liquor neatly lining the back. Tables, chairs and comfortable sofas were organized throughout the room. Empty now, she could picture the room packed with people looking to buy a few hours of fun.

Climbing up the stairs and reaching another door, she gingerly opened it, revealing what looked to be the woman’s apartment. A living room, less tidy than the floor below, with a lived-in appearance. Sansa led herself to a gray sofa and waited to speak to the person she assumed was the owner.

The woman returned a few moments later, this time dressed in a pair of dark skinny jeans and a long sleeved deep green t-shirt. She looked even prettier that way, Sansa thought, as she stood up to address her.

“I didn’t mean to bother you. I was just told-“

The woman put a hand up. “Look, I really don’t care. You can tell it to him when he gets back.”

“So…he does work here?”

She laughed. “No, silly girl. He owns this place. I just watch it during the day, work here at night. My name’s Ros.”

“Oh. Nice to meet you.” Sansa extended a hand. “My name’s…”

_Should I say? It doesn’t seem safe to be me._

Ros took her hand with an amused smile playing on her lips. “Don’t worry about it, little bird. You want something to drink?”

Ros made her way into the kitchen to boil some water, yelling from the other room.

“You’re not like, his daughter, are you?”

Sansa blushed. “No, nothing like that.”

“Ah, good. That would have been weird. What do you need from him? Are you looking for work?”

 _What am I looking for?_ She wasn’t sure yet. “I don’t know. Kind of.”

“I’m just making conversation, not interrogating. Don’t stress out.” Ros seemed to be warming up to her. “How old are you anyway?”

 _Not old enough to be working here._ “Old enough.”

Laughter again from the other room. “Alright, alright, you’ve won me over. I like your attitude, it’s adorable. I’m just warning you though...he runs a tight ship. Tight and by the books. He won’t let you work here if you can’t prove your age.” She paused. “I have to go get everything ready for the night soon. Do you want to tag along or hang out here?”

The idea of sitting alone in a stranger's apartment, right above a strip club, wasn’t enticing, so Sansa chose to follow Ros, helping her clean the tables and sweep the floors. It helped to take her mind off of the morning, of the dead. Ros didn’t stop talking unless she had to take a breath, clearly forming an attachment.

“Sorry bird, it’s actually refreshing to speak to someone who isn’t interested in fucking me,” was the woman’s confession after some time.

Before the girl could respond she heard the metal door open from down the hall. A loud shut followed, and a man’s voice called out. “Ros? You there?”

“Yeah it’s me.”

“Good. My office. Now.”

Ros looked at the girl. “Follow me, wait outside the door and I’ll call you when he’s ready.”


	3. drop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so follow me into the desert  
> as desperate as you are

Sansa stood outside of the door by the hall. It looked no different from the others, with the exception of a wooden label with the words OWNER in the middle. The other doors just had numbers. She could hear the conversation through the crack; Ros had neglected to fully close the entrance.

“Ros, I trust everything has been going well?” The man could be heard saying from in front of Sansa.

“Yes, no issues, with the exception of the thing we talked about last week…”

“Did he come back?”

“Not yet. I had to beef up security for a few days, my girls were scared to leave.”

“Let them know we can escort them home if they need it. I don’t want them to see us shaking.”

“Sure. I’ll tell them tonight.” She paused. “There is one more thing. I have someone here to see you.” She sounded nervous suddenly.

“Who?” His voice grew sharp, less conversational.

“She won’t say but…she called you by name, like, first and last.”

“A _her_?”

“Yeah, _a girl_. She looks young. Teens, maybe?”

A silence. Sansa counted at least 20 seconds of it.

“Let her in.” The man sounded irritated, Sansa thought, as Ros reopened the door and guided her in.

The man, just as the rest of the establishment, was neat and orderly. Trimmed brown hair with grayish patching on the sides, white shirt, black slacks and bright greenish eyes. He wasn’t very tall, she could tell even as he was sitting, but he seemed to command attention regardless. The man stood almost as soon as she walked in the room, eyes narrowing, calculating. He nodded to Ros, who then took her leave, the two of them alone.

“Who are you?’ The man demanded. His voice was slow, choosing his words carefully.

“Are you Petyr Baelish?” _Don’t let him see the way your hands are shaking._

“Where did you hear that name?” He walked around the large wooden desk, stopping just in front of it and leaning back, setting either palm on the table behind him.

She resisted the urge to avert her gaze from the man who was now much closer. “My-my mother. She told me.”

He stared at her, scanning her up and down. Sansa felt naked, even with several layers of clothes on to battle the outside chill, her hair was still damp from the rain. She flushed, unable to stop it, but stood her ground.

Almost to himself, he spoke. “Ah. You’re hers, aren’t you? You look just like her.” He bent forward slightly, just enough to extend an arm and twist a piece of her hair around a finger. “That hair. You could only be Cat’s.”

Sansa pulled away, letting the free strand fall back into place. “She’s dead.”  

That snapped him out of his near-reminiscence. “I heard. On the way here, actually. It’s a shame, really.” He said it in a way that would have been more appropriate to be speaking about spilled milk or a flat tire. Not about someone dying. “We grew up together, did you know?”

“She told me, right before-“

“Before they cut her throat?” Casually said.

Sansa’s stomach knotted up and she felt an urge to throw up. Or run as far away as she could. Instead she stood still and just watched him for a moment as he watched her.

_This can’t be the same person my mother told me to trust._

“She said…she said you would help me.”

“Did she?” The man turned away from her, running his hands along the desk. “Help you with what?”

_With finding somewhere to go. With stopping the grief. With everything._

“I don’t know. But they’ll find me if I leave now; they’re going to be looking for me.” She willed herself to stand a little straighter. He seemed like the kind of man who valued strength.

“So…you want me to give you protection? I assume from the Lannisters?” He seemed amused, back still to her, he turned his head slightly toward her. “That’s a tall order.”

The girl was out of options. She could run, but she would run out of money, of places to hide. Alone, she would run out of willpower. She had no idea where to find Jon or Arya. Everyone else was gone. “I know. I just need some time. Just a few days. Please.”

“I do a great deal of business with the people you’re running from, did you know that, _Sansa?_ ”

How the man knew her name she didn’t know, she hadn’t even told Ros. This conversation seemed to be going nowhere good, or nowhere at all. She resolved to come up with a new plan. Maybe Ros would let her stay the night until tomorrow. “Okay. I understand. Thanks for your time.” She turned on her heel to leave.

Three steps were taken toward the door before he spoke again. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you.”

She spun back around, now face-to-face with the man. “But you just said-“

“That I work with them. That doesn’t mean I can’t keep you safe.” He smiled with his mouth, eyes still hard. “But I’m not a charity.”

She was relieved just to have some semblance of assistance, no matter how it was given. “I can work.”

He breathed a laugh. “ _Can you?_ You do know where you are, right?”

Her face reddened again; she could feel it. “Yeah. I mean, I can clean and stuff. I can help out.”

Stepping forward until he was close enough to reach out to her, he nodded to her shoes. “You missed a spot, there.”

She looked down, surprised he had noticed several small drops of dried blood to her black and white shoes. “It’s not…I didn’t…” She couldn’t seem to find the words to form an excuse.

His hand darted out, index finger and thumb settling to hold her chin, lifting it up so she could meet his eyes. His grip was gentle, and so was his voice. How quickly had he appeared to switch from interrogation to sincerity? “You didn’t kill Joffrey Lannister? That’s not what I heard, and my informants are usually terribly accurate.”

 _This man is dangerous._ The thought running through her mind over and over. She was in over her head; she had been since she began dating the Lannister boy. She was at a crossroads; she could give up the game or learn to play.

“I did.”

He nodded, unhanding her. “I think we can use you here. Go and tell Ros you’ll be working for her directly. We’ll speak again later.”


	4. key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  i'll close my eyes and count to ten  
> and then i'll come find you.

She had been working at the club for two weeks and Sansa was still unsure of what to make of the place.

It was called The Mockingbird, and although the name wasn’t plastered or lit on the outside everyone seemed to know its name. There were little hints to its title around the bar, she noticed, on closer inspection. Monogramed birds on the drink napkins and glasses, on the business cards handed out, but it was clear it was one of those places where everyone _just knew_ the name.

The owner hadn’t been around since they’d last spoken. According to Ros, this was just a side enterprise to some sort of day job he had, but she never elaborated. He was rarely there, only showing up when absolutely necessary. She’d also warned the girl not to mention his full name again, to anyone, especially the man himself. Everyone here knew him by another name entirely.

_Littlefinger._

Sansa had giggled at the name at first, but the look she was given told her not to react that way next time. Ros had plenty of rules, and it seemed as though insulting the boss was the number one infraction she could make. She took that warning seriously, she needed friends here, not more enemies.

Ros took care of most of the day-to-day business; cleaning, book-keeping and even hiring and firing the girls. Special customers, requests or security issues all went through her instead of him. Any important decisions made were relayed to the boss with a line of text, confirmed or rejected within minutes.

She made sure Sansa was safely tucked away when business was in full swing, taking the spare bedroom in Ros’s apartment and watching television or sleeping in preparation for the next day. It was boring, and there weren’t many people to talk to, but she was safe, and so she was content.

In the mornings she woke early, even though the noise kept her from sleep until the early dawn hours. She had always been a morning person, unable to rest any longer once the sun was barely out. While Ros slept, she would begin to clean up the messes from the night before, and having most of it done made for a grateful employer by the time she woke up. The money Ros gave her was all cash, under the table, but very generous. She was told that Littlefinger insisted on giving her a good wage for her work. She kept the money stored in a small tin with a blue bird engraved on it she had taken with her from her old home.

The girls were nice to her, if somewhat confused by her presence. A pretty young thing that mopped the floors and kept her head down, only to leave right before the patrons came through the door. Ros hadn't explained why she was there when she introduced her originally, only stating that she was Littlefinger’s ward and would be working during the days. She received several skeptical looks at the statement, but nothing more than that.

 

One night, after sharing the apartment for a few weeks, Ros brought someone upstairs with her. The door was closed but Sansa could still hear the woman giggling, drunkenly, with a man’s voice accompanying her occasionally. Sansa had never seen Ros drink; she was all business when the doors were open. It was a Sunday, creeping slowly into Monday, the only evening they weren’t open, and so usually an early night for them.

She didn’t want to be an imposition; this _was_ Ros’s home after all. After hearing the door close to Ros’s room she slipped on a large shirt and creeped out of her bed and down the stairs, scanning the bar and hallway, making sure there was no one else in the building. Grabbing a sheet from the linen room, she covered the cleanest looking bar sofa and resolved to find some rest there.

 

A hand, on her brow, caressing the hair from her face, woke her from what could have been a hundred years of sleep. Sleepily blinking her eyes open, the owner of the club completely blocked her vision. He was kneeled next to the couch in an attempt to stir her gently.

“What are you doing out here, Sansa?” He whispered. They were inches apart; she swore she could feel his breath. Her face reddened with embarrassment; she still had on her oversized tee as a nightshirt, trailing down mid-thigh, her underwear being her only other garment. He was clad in a fine suit and tie, hair expertly arranged. He looked like someone who was _important_ , not the owner of an establishment like the one she was sleeping in.

She pulled back, sitting up against the couch. “I was just…giving Ros some privacy. She has a…friend over.”

He moved to standing, eyes hard. “She knows better than to mix business and play…”

She gave an alarmed look. “No!” quietly but urgently said. “Don’t be angry with her; it’s her day off, really, and she’s been so kind to me. Everyone has.”

He gave her an amused smile. “So you’re settling in well?” He extended a hand to her. “Come.”

She cautiously took his hand, following him to his office door. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked it and unwound the key from the ring, handing it to her. “For next time. In case you need somewhere to go.”

“What-“ She started, but he was already inside, beckoning her to follow. His office was the same as before, neat and orderly with a large desk and a couple of hard-backed chairs. He ignored the room, continuing to a door to the side she hadn’t noticed before.

Inside was a separate bedroom. A king-sized bed placed in the middle with fresh-looking white sheets and dark green pillows strewn about the top. A side table on either side of the room were the only other additions.

“This is my private room, if I have to stay here overnight.” He explained to her. “If you need a place to sleep, do so here from now on. I don't want anyone finding a teenager sleeping in my bar.”

She was stunned. “I couldn’t, I already owe you enough. Where would you sleep?”

“I never use it.” He shrugged. “At least it won’t go to waste. Sleep here for now, until morning.” At that, he moved to the exit.

“Wait-“ the girl began, attempting to reel him back. He stopped, head tilting in her direction. “Pe…I mean…Littlefinger. I just…thank you so much. I don’t know how I can repay you.” She almost let it slip, his real name. She scolded herself internally, unable to hide her furrowed brow.

He gave a nearly-imperceptible laugh. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” A slight pause from him. “And Sansa, you can call me by my name, as long as no one else is around. But there _cannot_ be anyone around.”

“Okay. Thank you, Petyr.”


	5. glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> isn't it lonely  
> living all the time?  
> (it's a new day and I've got new ways of turning into stone)

She woke up just a few hours later in the room she was almost entirely unfamiliar with. After a pause, an uncertainty of where in the world she was, she remembered the events from earlier. The sheets were soft, expensive feeling, especially compared to the linen she had hastily flung over the bar’s couch. She propelled her arms up and down, feeling the fabric on her skin.

In her old home she had a large bed set in the middle of the room, a light blue and white bedding pattern covering the vast area. She’d insisted on it when she was old enough to make her own choice, replacing the pink hearts and flowers that had covered her the walls and mattress previously. She had always been interested in having _things_ , possessions. Expensive and impressive. She wanted anything that would make her seem more mature, more enviable.

More superficial.

She stifled a chuckle at the thought of herself a year ago, her band of friends and followers, just as shallow as she was. She imagined what that girl might say to the nameless, lonely person she would see in the mirror if she bothered to inspect her own reflection anymore.

_Just look at me now._

Spending her days not in school but scrubbing bathrooms and cleaning a strip club’s bar daily. She had a only bag full of belongings to her name, none of them valuable to anyone but her. She had no family to speak of. She owned nothing and was no one.

People certainly wanted her dead, but the more painful truth was that nobody cared if she lived.

Except Ros and possibly Littlefinger. But who was she to them? A pest? An inconvenience? A debt from her mother repaid?

She had to find it amusing, if only to stop the tears from flowing. She would give anything to see her family again, any one of them. Her parents, brothers. Even Arya, _especially Arya_ , her daily sparring partner, the old thorn in her side.

It would do no good, to think about it now.

Willing herself to put it all out of mind, she shifted out of the bed and remade it, attempting to make it look as presentable as possible. Cracking the door slightly, worried that the man who had let her borrow his space might be on the other side of the door in his office, she found it empty. She felt a twinge of disappointment at his absence, hoping to thank him again for preventing a stiff neck from the grimy couch.

 

Ros came down several hours later while Sansa was drying newly cleaned glasses at the bar, a dark haired man trailing behind her. Seeing him out at the door, she came up to Sansa with an embarrassed, tight smile.

“Bird, look, I’m really sorry about last night. I got drunk, and I completely forgot you had the spare room.”

“It’s okay. It’s your apartment. I don’t mind, really.” Sansa hoped her earnest statement was convincing.

Ros took a seat next to her and grabbed a towel and glass. “Where did you sleep, anyway?”

She didn’t know how to answer-would Ros be mad? “Um…well, the couch over there, to start...”

“Oh, Bird. That’s honestly disgusting. God, I feel even worse now. Do you know how many men have… _ugh_.” Ros stopped herself, appearing too repulsed to go on.

“Well, I tried to cover it…”

“It’s still gross. I’m so sorry.”

Sansa hesitated, wondering if she should continue. “But then, Littlefinger showed up.”

Ros stopped drying the glass and set it down, eying her skeptically. “What? He was here last night?”

“Yeah, closer to this morning. He looked like he was going to work. He, well…he told me to sleep in his office.” _Maybe I wasn’t supposed to say anything…_

The older woman gave her a look of disbelief. “No way. You mean his spare room?”

“Yeah. He gave me a key. Told me I could sleep there if I needed to.”

“Wow.” Ros still looked shocked. “He’s really such a secretive person, I’m just surprised.” She paused for a second, appearing to try to find the words to continue. “He didn’t, like, try anything, did he?”

“No! No, he just left after he showed me the room.” _What kind of man was he, that Ros was asking these questions?_

She put a hand on hers moving closer to her as if they were sharing a secret. “Hey, you’ll tell me if he does, right? You’re a _kid_.”

She frowned. “Does he do that kind of thing?” This was her mother’s _friend._ Someone her family trusted.

Ros let out a sigh, running a hand through her hair. “Well, I don’t know, honestly. He’s never fucked one of my girls, I know that. Never made a move on me. Hell, I’ve never even seen him with a date, although you know he doesn’t come around every day. I think, years ago when I first started working here, he would have a wedding ring on sometimes, but he hasn’t worn one in years.”

Even Ros, his right hand at the club, didn’t know anything about him. How much had her mother known?

Sansa looked down at the cup she was idly drying, still trying not to think about her family, a battle she’d been losing all day, when Ros jumped up, extending a hand to her. “Hey, let’s go out. Just for a little bit. I’m willing to bet you’re going crazy stuck in here.”

Her stomach dropped. How many people were looking for her? “But…Littlefinger said-“

“We’ll get you a wig, a disguise. No one will know. I’ll tell anyone who asks that you’re my little sister. We have a couple of hours before we have to be back, and you seem to have done all of the work anyway. Let’s get our nails done or something.”

Thinking about the last time she’d been outside of the building, she began to feel closed in, trapped. Maybe an outing was what she needed after all. “Can we stop by a bookstore?” Her friends would have made fun of her for reading for enjoyment; it was one of the many things she had to give up to fit in.

She couldn’t wait to get her hands on a book.


	6. crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at long last it's crashed, it's colossal mass  
> has broken up into bits in my moat.

As soon as she stepped into the sun she felt better _, lighter_. She took a deep breath in, trying to replace the stuffiness, the smell of bleach and surface cleaners were constant assaults on her senses. There was another smell as well; the odor that lingered in the club always, stronger in the early morning when she first walked down the steps. The smell of sex and sweat. That one took a little longer to get rid of in her olfactory nerves.

It was chilly, so Sansa had borrowed one of Ros’s autumn jackets to cover an over-worn blue shirt and jeans. Ros insisted their first destination be a mall, or at least somewhere the girl could find some new clothes. She’d been alternating between wearing her slim variety of garments and strays given by her current companion. Stained with products strong enough to get rid of _anything_ , stained with perspiration.

What an exciting life she now led.

She hadn’t been to a shopping plaza in a while; it wasn’t safe, toward the end, to go out very often. Her parents had started to send out for staples instead of going themselves. Assistants were hired; their sole purpose was _fetching_ , so the Stark children would want for nothing in their confinement.

The children had noticed gradually. Sports and band practices were put on hold, much to her brothers’ disappointment. She could remember little Rickon’s face when he was told he wasn’t allowed to play soccer anymore. Then Jon had to quit his after-school job. Arya and Bran were restricted to playing in the yard only under supervision. Sansa was allowed to spend time her friends less often. The look they gave her when Joffrey came to pick her up to see a movie…she’d never seem them look so worried.

That had been a week before they died.

There was no one to be worried about her now besides the woman chatting next to her.

“We’ll get you a little bit of dye as well, the temporary kind, to put on your eyebrows, Bird.” Ros casually started, a quick glance to make sure no one was within earshot. “The sunglasses’ll hide it enough for now.”

Sansa scratched her head, careful not to tug too much. The wig was a darker shade of blonde, a more natural color than what most of the establishment’s girls chose. And it _itched_. Her own thick hair was bundled underneath with some difficulty by the older woman, cursing sheer bulk and length of it.

Maybe she would cut her hair when they got back, if only a little, to make it easier next time. Right now the unique shade of it seemed more like a curse anyway, a red flag, a beacon for her enemies.

Clothes shopping with Ros was a serious affair; each garment had to be tried on at least once and displayed to her for evaluation, even as Sansa tried to explain that no one would be seeing what she wore anyway. A bookstore was eventually agreed upon, but hastily exited with an eye-roll as soon as she chose a few intriguing novels. They made their way next to the food court to grab a snack next, each choosing ice cream despite the cooler weather.

“Do you want to see a movie?” Ros asked, biting into a corner of the waffle cone.

“If you want...” _I’d rather stay outside. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance._

Ros laughed. “You’re too transparent. It’s fine, we don’t have to go-we only have a couple of hours before we have to be back anyway…how about getting a manicure?”

It was directly behind her that Sansa heard a laugh.

She knew that laugh.

Myrcella.

Joffrey’s younger sister. She could see her out of the corner of an eye, sitting at a table a few feet away, joking with a handful of her friends. Myrcella was one of the only Lannisters that could be considered _good,_ too young and sheltered to be hardened yet. But if Myrcella was here…

Usually Joff was the one to drive her. His mother had often insisted he be the chauffeur, trusting him more than a hired hand. The Lannisters weren't quick to rely on anyone but themselves.

She grabbed Ros by the forearm, pulling her away from the table just as she heard Myrcella sigh dramatically, “Where _is_ he? Is he playing video games in that store again? I want to go home.”

 _He was here._ Her body tensed, throat constricting, barely sucking in enough air to keep afloat. When she looked at Ros her eyes conveyed what her voice couldn’t.

_We need to go. Now._

 

Moving quickly, but not fast enough to raise any eyebrows, they fled away from the restaurants and toward the exit. Sansa kept her head down, ribs containing an overactive heart, Ros trailing behind her, keeping to her right flank until-

 

A thump was heard, a colliding of bodies. Ros had bumped into someone, paying more attention to _her bird_ than to where she was going. She heard someone hit the ground, most likely Ros. Sansa whirled around to help her up, but someone else was already there with an extended arm.

The tall, blond-haired boy scowled at Ros, as she used his hand as an anchor. “Watch where you’re going next time, lady.”

Sansa stayed behind him, out of his peripheral vision. She felt numb. She felt like throwing up. She felt scared.

Ros breathed out a laugh and turned away from him, strolling by him with new-found balance and a fair amount of reciprocated attitude. “Get off your phone when you’re walking next time, _kid_.”

Ros had crashed into Joffrey.

Sansa was already walking, already running. She tried to seem casual, toning her stride down to a brisk walk, but her feet wouldn’t obey her brain. She could hear her minder chasing, calling after her. She kept running. 


	7. brick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hate to break it to you but its out of my control,  
> forces go to work while we are sleeping.  
> if i could attack with a more sensible approach,  
> obviously that's what i'd be doing.

Her legs were burning, the ache radiating to her hips from her flat-shoed feet pounding into the asphalt. She was heaving great sobs between breaths when Ros finally caught up to her, yanking her back by the antecubital. Nearly falling into her, she remained unsteady on her feet. Her face was warm, diaphoretic, and her arms and legs were jelly. She could have kept going though, she _would_ have kept going until she made it to the club if she hadn’t been stopped.

“What…are you doing?” Ros asked, half out of breath herself. She looked concerned and furious all at once. “Why are you running away from me?”

“Not...you.” The girl managed to sputter out between gasps. “ _Him.”_

“Who?” Rose unhanded her and moved back, giving her space.

“He was there. He ran into you. He-he-“

“That little brat? What, do you know him or something?” _She wasn’t getting it_. And how could she? She didn’t know who Sansa was, after all.

“That was Joffrey.” She said quietly, though no one was around. Nearly a household name around this city, Ros would know who she meant. The Lannisters were front-page news almost everyday.

“Joffrey? Tywin’s bastard grandson? No, it wasn’t.” There was certainty in her tone.

“How do you know?” _You didn’t date him._

_You didn’t kill him._

The irritation was leaving Ros’s face by the second, leaving room for only worry. “Because, that little shit used to come in all the time and harass my girls. We weren’t allowed to kick him out because of all the business his family brings in. God, I sometimes I wanted to just choke him…” She extended her arms, palms out to her. “But I know for a fact that wasn’t him, Bird.”

“But…” She had been so sure it was. The hair, the height, his voice. It had to be him.

“ _It wasn’t_.” Ros said again.

 _It couldn’t have been_ , Sansa began to rationalize. A person doesn’t, _can’t_ survive the kind of wounds she inflicted. Her head was pounding, adrenaline still rushing through her, but the panic that had pinpointed her vision and strained her muscles was starting to subside the more she reasoned with herself. She guided her body down to the ground, propping her back against the brick building next to the sidewalk.

_Just a rest, to clear my head._

Ros took a seat next to her. “Wasn’t he found dead a while back anyway? After all that stuff with Ned Stark and his family?”

Sansa looked down for a moment, then back over to meet Ros’s, a last shuttering breath leaving her as she calmed down. “Yeah. He was shot.”

She knew Ros wasn’t an idiot, she could almost hear the cogs turning in her head, putting together the pieces of the bird in front of her. And then, “who are you?” When Sansa didn’t respond she continued. “You’re afraid of a Lannister, a dead one at that. You spend weeks hiding in a strip club. And you seem to have gotten Littlefinger’s attention, something I’ve never seen anyone do… _who are you?”_

“I’m no one.” Sansa whispered miserably. The closest thing to the truth.

“You’re one of Ned’s kids…aren’t you? One of the ones that escaped.”

She didn’t say anything, instead choosing to play with the frayed end of a jacket. They sat for a while in silence, Ros eventually draping an arm around the girl who stared down at the cement, analyzing every cigarette butt and dried piece of gum.

+

The girls were trickling in by the time Sansa and Ros returned, still clad in sweats and messy ponytails, not yet prepared to dazzle and seduce. Good, they weren’t late enough yet for it to be a complication. In passing, one of the girls muttered to Ros, “he just came in; he’s waiting in his office.”

Ros thanked the woman and turned to Sansa. “Can you go make sure our liquor shipment came today? I’ll be there in a minute.”

The girl nodded, but stayed put as Ros walked down the hall toward Littlefinger’s office. _No_ , she would hear what they had to say this time; she was no longer a fan of secrets. She waited for Ros to shut the door behind her and crept after her until her own face rested on the door, listening in. No one would catch her; the girls were all getting ready for the evening.

She heard Ros through the wooden barrier, voice raised as she argued with the owner. “You didn’t tell me who she was!”

The other voice, his voice, was collected and calm. “You didn’t need to know.”

“Of course I did! You know how many Lannisters spend their time here, _Petyr_ ” His name on her lips was like venom, an insult.

“She doesn’t work when the bar’s open, does she? That was part of the agreement.”

He was speaking to her like a father to an unruly child.

“It’s not safe for her.”

“And where else would she go? They would find her if she left on her own. We can keep an eye on her here.”

“But she’s a child.” A final, pleading argument from Ros.

“She’s stronger than you seem to think. Just ask Joffrey Lannister.”

“You mean she was the one who…” Ros trailed off. The answer was in his statement.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s on the other side of the door.” Sansa could hear the amusement in his voice, but she was too busy trying to keep her breath even to really acknowledge it. _How did he know I was here?_

As if on cue to answer he the man spoke to the eavesdropper. “I have cameras throughout the establishment, Sansa.” Calling her by name shocked her, although she supposed it didn’t matter now that Ros knew. “You can come in now.”


	8. forearm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's no need to dig any further  
> i've laid it all out  
> it's clear.

“Eavesdropping? How disappointing…” tongue clicked against palate to further demonstrate his words. The man didn’t _look_ disappointed, sitting behind his desk, leaned back into his chair. He looked intrigued. Sansa cautiously made her way to stand by Ros, not breaking eye contact with him.

“You were talking about me. I have a right to know-“

“A right?” He interrupted, smirking. “Murderers don’t have many rights.” He stood, bringing his fingers to intertwine into each other at his abdomen against a clean white shirt, moving toward the pair. “Staying here means protection; food, water, work with pay. It doesn’t give you free reign to do as you please.” Standing in front of the two of them now his mocking smile disappeared, mouth set firm. “If I see you listening at my door again it’ll be your last day here.”

 _Will you kick me out or kill me?_ She wanted to ask the question, but the words caught in her throat. Is he that kind of man, _one who kills?_ He hadn’t appeared surprised or disgusted at her own small body count, but he also didn’t seem like the type to get his hands dirty. Either way, this situation was going to escalate; being confined was only making it worse, evidenced by her breakdown that afternoon. She was sick of feeling trapped, of the constant memory of her family’s execution. “No.” Her response. An answer, a refusal.

“No?” If her goal was to see Littlefinger caught off guard she might have succeeded. His eyes widened just slightly, an eyebrow arched, fingers tightened into his umbilicus. She wondered if Ros had noticed, stealing a quick side-glance to her for any sort of confirmation. She received none; her face was a mask. Littlefinger shifted his attention to the older woman as well. “Get out.”

Ros hesitated, looking to Sansa and back to the man giving the order. “I don’t think I should leave.”

“I won’t tell you again.” His voice was quiet, threatening, nodding toward the door expectantly.

The woman stayed unmoving for a few long breaths, not breaking her cold stare at the man. It seemed to Sansa that they were communicating without words. They’d been working together for years, maybe their relationship was stronger than Sansa initially understood it to be.

She didn’t know how much time passed. It seemed like years.

The woman surrendered, taking a step backward and turning on a heel she marched out of the room, door slamming in her wake. Sansa focused on the door, wanting to run after her and never come back. But Littlefinger was right; she wouldn’t make it on her own. Not yet, at least. Her mind drifted again to the word: _Trapped._

Eyes snapped back to the temporarily forgotten girl. “And you…” he took a step nearer to her. And another, and another until noses were inches apart. A hand took her forearm, firmly but not painfully. “What do you mean, “no”?”

“I mean _no._ ” She didn’t back up, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “You didn’t take me in as a captive, you took me as a friend of my mother’s.”

“I took you in as payment of a debt.” He corrected.

“And when will it be paid off? What will happen then?” _Will you sell me out? Collect a reward?_

“That remains to be seen.” There was no menace in his voice, just a sort of practicality. He was a businessman above else. They both knew it.

She was a bargaining chip, then. Had she known as much already? Had her apparent luck in finding sanctuary been a ruse all along? Maybe if she’d have found another place to go, a safer place to hide, she wouldn’t have mistaken a boy at the mall for a corpse. Maybe she’d be dead by now, if not for him.

Almost forgetting the situation in front of her for a moment, she thought about her first meeting with him. She’d made up her mind then, to play the game. But how reliable was a mind that carried so much weight and hurt?

_Or does that just make me stronger?_

It could be useful, to be used, she realized suddenly, snapping back to the present.. He was evaluating her, watching her choose her next words with an expectant gaze. Her chin tilted up, attempting to curb the shivers that ran down her spine, a mixture of fear and anxiety and being _so near_ to the man. Her attention went to the hold on her arm, his thumb brushing up and down slowly, barely noticeably, on the sensitive skin of her inner forearm. She wondered if he knew he was doing it, it felt as if it were a subconscious, lazy impulse.

“And what happens when the Lannisters find out that you’ve been harboring the girl they’ve been looking for?” She tried to stand tall, to give credence to her words.

“And who’s going to tell them?” A half smile formed on lips, daring her to continue.

“I will.”

His eyes narrowed, tilting his head and moving toward her ear. When he was close enough for her to feel his breath where jaw met earlobe he spoke softly. “I think, little one, that you value your own skin too much for that brand of blackmail.”

“If-“ she faltered for a hitched breath, the warmth of his own exhale causing goosebumps to form down her neck. “If you’re going to do it anyway-“

“You might as well beat me to the punch?” The grip on her forearm loosened until he let go altogether, pulling his head back until they were at arm’s length again. Some part of her missed the temporary closeness, the breath, the contact.

Some part of her was a fool.

“Do I _need to_ beat you to the punch?” _Are you planning to sell me to the highest bidder?_

She was given no answer to the question; he turned and walked back to his desk. When he spoke again he was still faced away from her. “Get to work. It’s late and you’ve got time to make up from your little field trip to the mall.”


	9. favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> never danced like this before  
> we don't talk about it

Of course he knew when his employees came and went. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he was well-informed about their excursion, but he also didn’t appear entirely angry. He seemed to enjoy challenging her, making her squirm, but to what end? If his eventual goal involved trading her to her enemies, she would have to begin her contingency plan now. She needed a way out. She needed to make friends.

 

Ros came up to the apartment sometime much later in the evening. Sansa was reading on the spare room’s bed, trying to ignore the rowdy sounds below. She had become good at ignoring the catcalls and moans that traveled the short distance to the place she spent her evenings. She found it oddly soothing at times to know that she wasn’t alone, that people were near, no matter what activities they might be up to. Comfort was difficult to come by, and so she took it where she could get it.

Ros dropped next to her on the comforter, dressed in a deep red dress just a step above lingerie. Her hair was immaculately sprayed and shaped into an elaborate braid, her makeup flawless. She had to look the part, even if she was running the show and not participating in it. “Are you okay?” They hadn’t spoken since she was sent from Littlefinger’s office.

Sansa closed the book and tossed it to the side. “Yeah, just bored.” _And afraid. And tired. And worried that I’m falling apart._

“Sansa…” She said her name cautiously, quietly. “I know he’s my boss, but I want you to know that you can come to me if you need anything. If anything…happens. You can trust me.”

“I know, thanks.” It was a detached response; she’d reverted back to her automated replies that had been reserved for extended family and her parent’s friends at parties. She was being _polite_.

Would she see hurt in the woman’s eyes if she looked closer? Maybe; Ros had taken the response as a cold one, judging by the downcast eyes. “I’m…just worried about you.”

 _Worried_. It had felt like a lifetime ago that someone had feelings of worry about her. And _trust_ , what did that word mean again? It was almost synonymous with betrayal to her now. But the way Ros looked at her, a look Sansa herself may have given Arya once or twice, the look a sister might give. Maybe she did care, at least a little. Her chest seemed to crush inward, inhibiting breath. “Thanks” was all she could sputter out, hoping the words came out as sincere as she’d meant them to.

 

Days passed and passed and the evenings blurred to Sansa. She learned the names of all of the girls that worked at the club, their hobbies, how they prepared for their nights, how they made the big money. Ros would take her on an occasional daytrip, careful not to go anywhere too crowded for fear of another incident. Every once in a while she would think she caught a glimpse of him, of the dead boy, on the bus or in passing on the sidewalk. It became easier to dismiss the more it happened, the more she was able to use rationality to put it out of mind.

She began to dream of it as well, of killing him again. But in her dreams he never died, he just kept fighting back, no matter how many bullets she put in him. He smiled and smiled and strangled until she woke up with sweat beading on her brow. She found it happened less the nights she stayed in Littlefinger’s spare room, curled up alone on the plush bed.

 

 

“Fuck!”

Sansa heard Ros swearing from down the hall while she was folding napkins in the laundry room, preparing them for a social gathering the next day. Stopping her monotonous task and wandering down to the yelling older woman, she found her on a bar stool, legs crossed and rubbing her temples with tensed fingers.

“What’s wrong?”

“Jeyne called off for tonight and she’s our only bartender on.” Ros’s eyes were closed in consternation. “No one else can come in.”

The girl didn’t know what to say. Usually their staff was a well-oiled machine. Absences were rare. Everyone liked working at the club, at least opposed to other facilities in the same vein. Not only that, but Littlefinger hated unreliability; those frequently tardy employees never lasted long. “Can I help with anything?” An empty offer, seeing as she had nothing to give.

The woman’s eyes snapped open, locking onto Sansa, narrowed. “Bird, how old are you? Really?”

 _Maybe not so empty after all. Should I answer, should I lie?_ She decided it wouldn’t hurt for Ros to know her age. “I just turned 18.”

She stood from the stool, pacing back and forth a few times. “Okay, okay.” She turned back to Sansa, putting an arm on her shoulder. “How would you feel about bartending?”

“Me? Serve drinks? I wouldn’t know how-“

“I can give you the rundown,” Ros interjected. “It’s really not hard, and the girls can help out too, if you have questions. If you’re not comfortable I completely understand…”

Her tone suggested she _wouldn’t_ understand. There was a larger concern looming in Sansa’s mind. “What about Littlefinger? He said I can’t be out here when we’re open.”

“We’ll do the same thing we do when we go out. You can wear a wig, makeup, a nice dress. No one will know. And he never shows when we’re open…not unless he has a meeting, and nothing’s scheduled.” The way Ros spoke indicated that the decision was practically made for her.

“I’m still not sure it’s a good idea, Ros.”

“I’ll owe you a huge favor if you do this for me. Anything you want. Please?”

 _A huge favor_. She could use a favor or two. And anyway, maybe it would be fun.


	10. palm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

The dress Ros gave her was tight, black, and much too short, barely traveling mid-thigh. The customers wouldn’t see it, she reasoned, being behind the tall bar. What they _would see_ was the low cut of the neckline, exposing more than just a little chest. They would notice how low the back was designed, revealing nearly all of her vertebrae, if she turned to grab a fresh glass. She felt awkward, uncomfortable in it, hugging all of the curves she’d disregarded since she’d been living there.

The high black heels would give her trouble at first, before she remembered how to wear them. She had been excellent at walking in them once; it wouldn’t take much time before it came back to her. A thick brown wig with loosely curled tresses covered any auburn that would give away her secret. Rouge and heavy eyeliner served to further mask the girl. A quick glance at a mirror before hurrying down to start working, made it clear she wouldn’t be recognized.

She couldn’t even identify herself in the reflection.

Ros gave her a quick overview; cleaning the bar daily afforded her the knowledge of where everything was already. Pouring, mixing, serving was what she needed the real education on. With less time than she would have liked, the opening hour hastened up and the front door was unlocked. Thirsty and more than thirsty men began to trickle in.

It wasn’t as difficult as she’d imagined. It was early still, and there weren’t many customers; just a few men scattered throughout the bar, a girl on each shoulder. The drinks ordered by the patrons were simple; beer, whiskey, nothing too complicated. The girls helped her with their more complicated orders, showing her which liquor went with each fruity drink. They’d let her try and guess how much to put in, laughing at the botched attempts to determine the ratio of a Long Island. She could almost say she was enjoying herself.

The night continued, more regulars came and went, and the place became busy. Once or twice, Ros came and helped her catch up, singing praises of her quick learning. She was in constant motion, drink orders backing up without relief. Still, she didn’t hate it. She had something to do, something to keep her mind occupied.

 

Until she saw him.

He was staring at her, loosely holding a drink with a palm. Where had the drink come from? She was the only bartender, after all, and she’d only just noticed him. She wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, in the corner of the room, watching. As soon as eyes met he began to stride toward the bar. She finished pouring a drink for the man in front of her and turned to meet him.

He was in what she assumed to be his business attire, the usual white buttoned shirt and black slacks, hair neat and trimmed. When he was close enough to speak to her she could see the tenseness in his jawline, his eyes focused. There was no amusement about him, no humor. “What are you doing out here?” Words quiet but sharp, each syllable articulated.

_Remain calm, everyone’s watching_. She put on a timid smile. “Jeyne called off and there was no one else.” Her attempt at damage control didn’t seem to be working. “I really don’t mind.”

“I don’t care if you mind. _I mind_.” He nodded his head backward, toward the hall. “Get in my office. Now.”

“But…the bar…” What would Ros say if she left it unattended? She searched the room, looking for the woman but having no luck.

“ _Now.”_

He wasn't following as she made her trek down the familiar hallway, passing noisily-occupied rooms until she found herself in front of the door. A quick glance behind her, he was still nowhere in sight, and she walked in.

She stood in his office for nearly a half hour before considering leaving the room. Should she still wait for him? Had he left? _No, not without locking his office._ And why did he lock it anyway? What could he possibly have to hide, never spending any time there?

She inched toward his desk, noticing nothing out of place, no spare papers scattered around. Testing, rounding the side of the desk she slid a hand across the fine finished wood until she stood on the opposite end, staring down at the computer and set of drawers.

Not nearly as conflicted as she would have thought, she reached down and slid open the top drawer, keeping her eyes on the office door. A quick glance down revealed stacks of paperwork carefully placed. Pulling the top page out with delicate fingers she skimmed the sheet, finding lists of properties, prices, recommendations for buying and selling buildings around the city.

“Prying? Need I remind you what happens to curious cats?” He must have just slipped through the door. She looked up to him, caught. The paper fell back into the drawer and she closed it slowly, backing away from the desk. “I didn’t know when you’d be back, so I-“

“Decided to start nosing around?” A drink was still in his hand. He came up to the desk and set it down on the surface with a thud, moving until he was able to open the drawer she’d inspected. “Find anything interesting?” A hint of an entertained smiled, but there was still anger there.

_I don’t know, but I can guess_. “You’re a banker, accountant…something that has to do with money and property.”

“Financial advisor.” He corrected, flitting through the papers absentmindedly.

“So why do you run this place?” She’d been wondering for some time now, why someone who seemed to have a good job ran a shady side-establishment.

“Why not?” Was his only answer, the drawer shutting with a slam and his took another step toward her form. And another, causing her to retreat until she felt the brush of the wall on her back. And still, he moved forward until chests were almost touching and their faces were inches apart. She was caught off-guard, a shallow set of breaths in quick sequence as she stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Why the fuck did you think that would be a good idea?” His words were calm quiet, slowly said.


	11. wig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> synchronicity weaves like a web  
> when you were meant to be a meal

“I thought…with the wig…it would be okay.” Sansa stuttered, unsure of what to do next. She had been so pleased with the idea of a change in roles, of being out in the open and actually _talking_ to people, as unsavory as they might be, that it took less convincing than it should have to run the bar.

“And if someone had recognized you? What then?” A hand moved to her shoulder, clasping it gently. The anger was leaving him, replaced with something _new_. This question, instead of fury, was posed as if he were a teacher expecting the correct answer. An eyebrow raised, barely widening one of his green eyes.

 _Is this a test, a game?_ She didn’t want to play, but she would, in the end, if she needed to. Forcing her spine to lengthen, straighten, she met his stare with a hardened glare. “I would have called you. I would have run away.” She brought her own hand up, gripping his forearm, challenging him.

For long seconds he stilled, watching her, possibly expecting her to slump forward, to witness a breaking of will. But she didn’t; her grip remained firm and when he spoke again it was quietly, calculatingly. “Seems like a large risk to take just to serve drinks to horny men, don’t you think?” He met her defiance by closing what little distance was left between the two; his ribs pressed forward, meeting her own chest. His free hand found the dip of a waist, fingers secure in their hold.

“I was trying to be helpful.” Her heart was pounding. The man wasn’t irate anymore, she could see that much clearly. His eyes closing to half-parted slits and his lips _not quite_ closed, the warmth of his body radiating toward her. She measured her breaths in slow, controlled, inward pulls of air. She knew what his look, what his actions meant.

_He wants me._

Her stomach, and lower than her stomach, pulsed. Her dress was too short, the fabric suddenly feeling thin around her barely-covered form.

“Sansa.” He was chiding her, a subtle shake of the head. “You’re a clever girl. You know better.”

“Do you think I’m clever?” A genuine question blurted out, an attempt to distract herself from proximity. Their breaths were shared, they were so close and she knew what would happen next. _He’s going to kiss me_. She’d been kissed before, by boys her own age, but this wasn’t the impulsive longings of the teenagers in her past; a hungry look like his never preceded it. Part of her wanted to duck away and leave, but another, inside restricted chest and tense stomach, insisted she stay still.

_What’s wrong with me?_

“Remarkably.” The hand at her shoulder moved up to cup her face, thumb resting just behind her ear. She moved her head into the touch, closing her eyes and relishing it against her better judgement. How long had it been since she’d felt safe? She wasn't, certainly not with the man in front of her, but she could embrace the illusion, let it engulf her and relax her. Even with her eyes closed she could feel him coming nearer, warm breath against a cheek, drawing out a small sigh. He took advantage of her slightly parted lips at the exhale, pressing his own against hers.

His mouth was softer than she would have thought, as he planted a chaste kiss on her lips. The lipstick Ros had painted there dulled the tingling sensation, and despite herself she found her face accommodating the intrusion, tilting to the side to avoid his nose. He must have noticed, because the kiss deepened then, his tongue grazing a bottom lip, waiting until her mouth opened in invitation. The taste of his drink, some sort of whiskey, and what she assumed had been mint chewing gum, filled her mouth and nares. It was a pleasant taste, one she welcomed with a flick of her own tongue to meet his. She couldn’t say how long they remained, tasting and moving against each other, but eventually breathing turned into something closer to panting, and Sansa found herself wrapping her arm around his shoulder for support.

At her repositioning he retracted just slightly. “Turn around.” A soft request against her mouth as the hand at her waist pressed to help her spin. She pulled away, giving him a skeptical look, but obliged all the same, rotating around so that her back was near to his chest. His hand remained on her waist as he pressed his sternum into her spine, a free hand travelling to the wig that had been skillfully placed on her head. Her own hands moved as well, one bracing the wall in front and one moving to press against his at her hip, interlacing with his digits there.

She realized why he had turned her then, as the wig fell to the floor and fingers deftly let her secured hair down, unclipping and unfastening the pins Ros had placed there. She closed her eyes again, sure he couldn’t see from his angle. She didn’t want him to see that she might be enjoying it. It felt nice, having someone comb through her recently neglected tresses.

He brushed her locks aside, keeping his fingers tangled within them, and brought his face to the crook of her neck, placing a dry press of lips just beneath her ear. She shivered at the contact, extending her neck to allow better access. Like this, with soft touches and no accusations and no reason to hide, she could be content being near the man. The hand at her hip trailed sideways to her abdomen and wrapped around her to the opposite waist, bringing her flush to him. His kisses grew urgent, upward to her jaw and further, goading her to angle her mouth to meet his. It wasn't until her body leaned back that she noticed his hardness pressing against her, and she fought the urge to move her body to rock against it.

 _This has gone too far._ She hesitated, drawing her neck away from him. She was failing, letting the man get the upper hand. She needed a break to regain her composure. Her eyes moved from his hands to meet mossy gaze. “What are you doing?” The only question she could think to ask, sounding childish considering her active participation.

He didn’t speak, instead let out a barely audible, incredulous laugh. He unhanded her completely, backing away toward the door, running fingers through his hair coolly, as though nothing had happened. He grabbed the abandoned drink with his free hand and gave her one last look, an emotionless stare. Turning on a heel he made for the door, and just before he reached it he stilled with his hand on the doorknob. “Stay here until we close. We wouldn’t want anyone catching a glimpse of red.”

The door clicked shut and she was alone, clenched fists digging nails into flesh. _Who had won that round?_


	12. door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no more alone or myself could i be  
> looks like a strain to the arms it were open  
> no shortage of sordid, no protest from me

She waited until the morning light began to creep onto the wooden floor of his office before she left, dozing occasionally on his office chair but not going to the bed. The hall was empty, as well as the bar as she crept up silent stairs to the apartment she shared.

Ros was asleep on the couch, probably waiting up for her. Sansa gingerly tried to cover her with the blanket slung over the cushion, but Ros stirred as soon as she was near.

“What happened?” Sleepily asked while Ros brought her hand to rub an eye.

“Nothing. Littlefinger just saw me. Asked what I was doing.” Sansa feigned indifference, hands at her sides.

“I’m sorry. I should have….was he angry with you? He left right after.”

“No.” She lied. And then, an idea. “No. In fact, he thought it was a good decision to put me out there, in disguise of course.”

“Really?” Ros was skeptical, but shrugged anyway, moving to a sitting position. “That’s good. We could use you, and honestly it’ll be good for you to have people to talk to. Maybe start slow, once a week?”

“Sure.” Sansa gave a half smile, pleased that Ros was quick to believe her.

 

A day passed, and then a week. Sansa avoided his offered bed and his office altogether. She worked at the bar a few more times, serving drinks and idly chatting with men more interested in the women around her. She enjoyed being dolled up by Ros, enjoyed learning to make drinks and earning praise from the girls. It was the happiest time she’d had since arriving, and the idea of disobeying her boss made her feel a little wicked, paired with the underlying anxiety of eventually getting caught.

But Petyr was nowhere then. He hadn’t returned since his encounter with her, and so she began to sleep in his office again, curling around the fine sheets and pillows, thoughts sometimes drifting to his hands on her waist and his lips on hers. She tried to push those away as quickly as possible.

 

Another week, and one more. Sansa began to grow anxious. Was she worried he would be angry at her continued bartending? Of course he was going to be livid, of that she was certain. There was something else there too, a pesky feeling in the pit of her stomach. She told herself it wasn’t there, _the idea of missing him_ , and maybe it wasn’t.

He returned eventually, one night after nearly a month had passed. Ros was alone in the room next to hers. Without cause to travel downstairs to her employer’s for a more comfortable mattress, she instead tossed and turned on the smaller bedframe. It wouldn’t have made a difference, she reasoned, where she rested her head; sleep was not going to come easy to her. Her thoughts and eyes untouched by fatigue denied her any sleep. With clenched eyes she buried her face in the soft pillow and tried to push the impending morning out of her mind.

 

Sometime during the night she must have drifted into slumber; the click of the bedroom door from across the room caused her eyes to snap open and focus on the intruder. She bolted upright, palms planted firmly behind her in support, straining to make an identification. A shadow was all that was visible, but as the form slipped through the doorway and shut himself inside she had an idea of who it was.

“Littlefinger?” More evident now that she had a chance to adjust to the dark.

“Did I wake you?” Barely a whisper. _Ros must not know he’s here._

“What’s wrong?” She wondered if she’d done something, messed up an order or forgotten a chore. Had he gotten word that she was disobeying him? Why else would he seek her out in the middle of the night?

She didn’t want to think of why else.

“You weren’t sleeping downstairs.” He took a pair of steps closer, until his knees almost touched the side of the bed.  
She rearranged herself, somewhat more relaxed now, crisscrossing her legs on the sheets. Acutely aware of a lack of bra, she crossed her arms against her chest. “Ros doesn’t have company tonight.”

“I see.” His eyes drifted to the side, seemingly in thought. “But the mattress downstairs is nicer. More comfortable. The sheets are finer, softer. Maybe you’d like to relocate?” He was dressed more casual, black pants and a dark cotton shirt, his hair in slight disarray.

“I’m fine here, thanks.” In truth, it _would_ be more comfortable, but the way he was looking at her now reminded her of their moment in his office. She was glad for the lack of light; her face would be flushing from remembering the kiss, the way his hands felt in her hair. But he must have noticed, because instead of leaving at her refusal he took a seat next to her, his thigh just brushing against her knee.

She took an audible gulp, the buildup of her saliva forced down her esophagus. “What are you doing?” Her body stiffened at his relocation, a questioning glare would be evident to him.

He ignored it, leaning forward toward her, passing her until his right cheek grazed her left. “Have you ever touched yourself on my bed, Sansa?” Barely a whisper into her ear.

Her breathing halted, face burning. “No. Never.”

He made a “tsk” noise with his tongue, the reverberation was felt on her cheek. “What a shame. What about here?” His hand patted the sheets she was sitting on.

What answer could she give him? He would assume she was lying if she told him no. He was so bold; she could be bold, too. “Yes.”

He leaned back slightly, bringing the hand on the mattress to rest where her jaw met ear, his eyes finally connecting to blue. “Would you like to do it now?“ An eyebrow raised, a challenge.

 _So that’s why he came here_. And again she was honest with him, a single nod was offered. “But Ros-“

“Won’t hear if you’re _very_ quiet. Lean back.”


	13. quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recklessly come and dance with me,  
> in the dark i see, a moment of you, only you.

She shifted her spine backward until she rested on her pillow, hands spread across her waist. The man hadn’t moved with her; he remained above, watching and waiting.

 _What am I doing?_ Despite her mind screaming at her to stop one of her hands tentatively travelled downward, lifting the oversized shirt she slept in, leaving her exposed below with nothing but underwear covering her lower half. Slipping fingers underneath the thin fabric she pressed her index to where she throbbed. A long breath escaped her, looking up to the man whose greenish eyes never left her own.

Was this the reason for his late night visit? She wondered if he hoped she would cooperate or if the question had been asked with the expectation of refusal. Sansa herself didn’t know the cause for her acquiescence; was it loneliness or a growing boldness? A memory of his hands on her waist and his mouth on hers? A desire for more? All of these things most likely, and more.

And still, she was unable to read his emotionless gaze.

Moving her digits in slow circles she continued, watching him and tensing, feeling the pressure in her abdomen begin to build. His hand left the sheet, finding the inside of her thigh, beginning to caress it much more slowly than her own machinations as her breathing grew faster, heavier.

And he just stared, and stroked her leg, and nothing else. Until, after a few moments he broke the silence in a hushed tone: “Imagine my tongue there, tasting you while my fingers moved inside of you. Would you like that?”

Fingers grew urgent with the combined sensations of his touch and his words paired with her own movements. “Yes.” _God, what am I doing?_

He smiled, fingers on her skin firmed into a kneading, and he removed the hand altogether from her leg. “Perhaps another time, then.”

A frustrated groan escaped her; his teasing was torture. She could picture him now using his tongue to lick her, enjoy her, and it drove her near to the edge. A few more hasty strokes would be all she needed; her hips undulating under her and-“

“Bird?” A name called through the door. “Are you okay?”

 _Ros_. Sansa’s hand left her, her body strained in panic as she looked to Petyr for help. She found nothing there but an amused grin. Maybe this was his plan all along; for Ros to hear. She wouldn’t take it well, and she’d become so protective of Sansa. It felt somewhere near a betrayal, to be involved with the man. A deep breath and she spoke. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I heard noises.” The woman spoke again from the hall.

Before Sansa could speak again Petyr was on her. He leaned completely forward, faces nearly touching, while his hand moved to continue what she had started. He slithered under cotton, disregarding her aching nub and sliding his index finger inside her, her wetness making the intrusion easy. She bucked into him, forcing her lips together in an attempt to remain noiseless. But Ros had asked a question, and the girl knew she wouldn’t leave without an answer.

“I-I couldn’t sleep.” His finger began pumping in and out, his palm moving in time just where she needed it. “Was cleaning up a bit.”

“Do you need anything?”

She gasped; another finger pressed inside of her, further now, curling and moving faster inside her. “No. No thank you,” was all she managed to sputter out between pulls of breath.

“Alright. Get some sleep.” Ros was apparently satisfied. Sansa waited until she heard the woman’s door shut before bringing her hips to meet his hand in earnest to chase her own satisfaction.

“You…asshole.” She expelled the words harshly. One hand clenched the sheets while her other moved to his wrist, pulling and pressing him to increase speed, increase force. At her insult, his fingers almost completely left her for an instant. Thrusting them back in roughly she heard something close to a groan near her cheek. Her own noises were muffled by teeth and clamped lips.

His smile left him then, traded in for a slight part of his lips, a lustful look. “You’ve been disobeying me, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” His thumb found her, pressing above where fingers worked.

“I told you not to work at the bar, didn’t I?” There was a slight twinge of irritation to his voice as he spoke.

“Yes.” _Don’t stop._ His actions felt so different, _so much better_ than her own; she was on edge, unsure what to expect with each retraction, each forward press.

“But how can I stay angry when you feel this good?”

“Then don’t be angry.” _Just keep going._

He breathed a quiet laugh near her ear. “I want to feel you come on my fingers now, Sansa. Do you think you can do that?”

She didn’t answer him; she was so close already. Blue eyes pressed shut and her entire body rigid with his movements. And then, one last gasping breath and she was gone, rewarded with a blissful few seconds, all stress and memory replaced with blinding pleasure. He continued to move his fingers insider her, slowly, feeling her pulse around him, until her panting could be considered breathing again.

“ _Good._ ” The only thing he said after, his fingers slowly leaving her. She opened her eyes and found his had still never left hers. He stood up then, leaving her disheveled on the bed as he finally looked away and silently left the room, closing the door behind him.


	14. grip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> broken bodies at my feet  
> and sirens on the way  
> they're too late  
> 'cause nobody's going to save us

She stared at the shut door for what felt like hours, bringing her knees up to her chest, chin resting between kneecaps. The fatigue she felt was trumped by an unrelenting feeling of shame; the relaxation, the momentary sensation that wiped her worries away was replaced with a cold chant, over and over circling in her head.

_What have I done?_

She’d _submitted_ , let him guide her, let him touch her, feel her. And what seemed to make it worse was that she’d enjoyed it, if only for a few moments. Joffrey had found satisfaction in causing her pain, making her fear him. Was Petyr more of the same; a monster using dubious compliance in place of brute force?

Afterward, much like with her previous suitor, she felt empty.

An hour and then two crept by as she sat unmoving, a floodgate of questions beginning to supersede anxiety. Tomorrow, two days from now or even a month into the future would he anticipate more of the same? Was she expected to fuck him now or had it been a test; a stepping stone to other, larger gains for him down the line? He wasn't a predictable man; she was sure even Ros couldn’t help her.

And Ros, should she tell her? Sansa didn’t want to be the one to cause her protective eyes to falter or her brows to furrow in anger. Would she see judgment there, or worse, failure? The woman had warned her more than once about her employer, after all. Her attempts at sheltering Sansa had failed only a wall away from her own bedroom.

_No_. She mustn’t tell Ros. She didn’t want to lose her only friend, the one person to cling to among the dolled up women looking to pay for rent and the men willing to oblige. Day in and out it was all the same; they were all of them on strings, moving exactly the way their puppet master desired.

One thought, one resolution and sleep finally found her.

_That won’t be me._

 

 

The bar was quiet, a middle of the week lull brought on by decent weather. A handful of days had gone by and Littlefinger hadn’t returned to the bar. She’d stopped worrying that he might visit her again in the middle of the night, channeling her apprehension into her job instead, into saving money and developing a plan.

Ros was leaning against the wooden counter with a smirk on her face as Sansa strolled over to speak to her.

“Need anything?” Sansa wore a long, straw-colored wig, straightened tresses falling awkwardly into her face as she placed a few clean tumblers under the bar.

“No, but do you mind keeping an eye on things for a few? The boss is supposed to stop by and I need to talk to him.”

“Yeah, I think I can handle it.” If it had been busier she might have been a little uneasy, but the night was coming to an end and most of the patrons were finishing their drinks and heading elsewhere.

“Cool.” Ros leaned in close for a minute, a knowing grin plastered on her face. “By the way, that cute guy over there has been staring at you all night.”

Sansa turned to look; a dark-haired 20-something was nursing a mug of some brand of light beer. She hadn’t really noticed, but she couldn’t remember him actually talking to any of the girls; a rarity in the sort of place she spent her evenings. Men didn’t come to strip clubs if they didn’t want _company_. Her eyes met the older woman’s again. “So?”

“So you should talk to him. At the very least you can ask him why he’s at an establishment like this one if he’s going to spend his time looking at the bartender and not the half-clothed women walking around. I’m trying to run a business here…bat your eyelashes, will you? Get him to buy some of the expensive bourbon.”

 

“Want another?” Sansa asked him after an amused Ros disappeared from her sight.

“Nah, I’m just passing the time.” Fingers drummed idly against the polished wood. She raised an eyebrow as if to say “ _why choose a place like this?_ “

“I was waiting for my father.” The boy expounded, speaking quietly. Sansa though she might have heard an odd sort of excitement in his tone.

“Your father?”

“Yeah, he’ll be here any second now.” And as if on cue, the man walked in. Balding with an angry look ingrained in winkled frown lines, she was certain the man must never smile. He was much taller than his son as the boy turned and stood to greet him.

“Where’s Baelish?” He spoke directly to her, ignoring the boy at this side.

A voice in her head told her to lie. “Not here right now. Maybe tomorrow; he doesn’t show up here much.”

“Right.” Whether the man believed her or not she couldn’t tell. He moved toward her, extending a hand to firmly clasp her shoulder while his son stood unmoving on her other side. The bar was still between them but being nearly cornered, outnumbered and helpless she couldn't help but recall the last time she felt this way. _Not since Joffrey._ She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memories and the searing warmth of the man's fingers on her. It was different now; she was stronger than she used to be. She wasn’t that meek little girl anymore, and the boy that hurt her was rotting in the ground.

Reflexively, she shrugged away. “Don’t touch me.” Eyes open but narrowed to a hardened stare, speaking the words she didn’t; _you don’t scare me._

The bald man chuckled, his arm moving back to his side. “Fair enough.” He looked down to his son, a backward tilt of the head toward the exit, an order to leave. One glance back to her before he left: “ _When he gets back,_ tell him his deadline’s been moved up. He has until the end of the month to find the girl.”


	15. hotel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why should I forgive you  
> after all that I've seen?  
> quietly whisper  
> when my heart wants to scream.

  
She watched them leave, standing perfectly still until she heard the door down the hall slam unceremoniously shut. It was only then she allowed herself to breath again.  
 _The girl._ Was it Sansa Stark the man was looking for? Had she worn her welcome out, finally, and was ready to be traded, bought, sold to her enemies? Who else could it be?  
There wasn't much time to take action. She spun around, abandoning the bar and turning to walk up the stairs to the apartment. Calm, collected, reminding herself that Petyr had cameras throughout the establishment and _she must not look panicked_. She made her way to her temporary room, grabbing a few personal belongings, a stack of saved cash with some clothes and hastily stuffed them into her worn-out backpack.

  
One step at a time she skirted around the now-empty bar and down the hallway to where his office was. The door was closed. _Good_ ; he would still be meeting with Ros, then. Her pace quickened as the door crept into her periphery, and then out of it as the exit grew closer. Her wig was still on; she’d decided it would be easier that way. It would be difficult to spot her in the moonlight without the beacon of auburn atop her head. And any of the Lannister's prying eyes would be looking for red.

  
If she’d expected a chase she was disappointed. Walking briskly but not running, _no need to cause a scene_ , she headed toward the city center block by block. There was a hotel she knew of, _a goal_ , somewhere away from the industrial park. No one would find her there.

  
Each time she snapped her head back she expected someone to be following her, ready to take her back to the club, ready to take her to prison for murder. She was a murderer, after all. _Had she forgotten?_ No, never. The image of the bleeding boy would forever be ingrained in her memory, a terrible reminder of the things she had done to survive. Every glance proved she had no tail, no pursuer, and each step away from Petyr Baelish lessened a troubling weight on her shoulders.

  
She didn’t trust him. And worse, _she didn’t trust herself._

  
The receptionist eyed her cautiously when she handed over a stack of bills for the hotel room. Sansa wondered how she must have looked, with her wig most-likely a mess of fake hair, eyes wide and near-crazed, a tight and ill-fitting dress and an old bag slung over her shoulders. The woman gave her the card key regardless, retracting her hand quickly in case the girl had anything _catching._

  
The room was well-lit and familiar, walls white and clean with a comfortable looking bed, and Sansa felt some semblance of safety. She’d stayed there before, with her mother and sister on a day trip through the city. _Just us girls_ , her mom had said. She'd spent the entire trip complaining, missing her school friends.

She replaced the dress with a shirt and pyjama bottoms and curled into herself surrounded by a mass of pillows and blankets, too tired to worry any longer.

  
  
She knew he was there before she opened her eyes. She could hear the tapping of his fingers on the mobile screen, the swish of his pressed shirt as he shifted slightly. She remained unmoving, trying to plan an escape route before he would be able to take action.

  
 _Too late._ He must have noticed her rousing; maybe he’d detected a change in breath because he cleared his throat to speak. “There was a man a week or so ago, willing to pay for you. _Really pay_ , and he had the money to back it up. Should I have sold you?” He spoke casually, and when she opened her eyes she saw he hadn’t even looked away from his phone.

  
She sat up, propped up against her hands on the mattress. “I’m not yours to sell.”

  
“Aren’t you?” He raised an eyebrow, finally placing his phone in his pocket, giving her an amused smile.

  
It made her furious, his mocking smile. More angry than him finding her, more angry than what the man and his son had told her the night before. “No. I’m no one’s." Her legs moved to a crossed position defensively. "How did you know I was here?”

  
He stood up but remained distant, several feet from the bed. “I’m a _very_ concerned father looking for his runaway teenager. The woman downstairs was worried about you.” He nodded to the door impatiently. “Get dressed, _daughter_ , let’s go. I have work to do.”

  
She breathed out an incredulous laugh, arms folded across her chest like a child throwing a tantrum. “Why? So you can hand me over to the Lannisters?”

  
“What?” Oddly, it seemed to catch him off guard, the smile wiped from his face.

  
“That man, the bald man, he told me. He told me about your deadline, how long you have to turn me in.”

  
“The bald man? You?” Confusion reigned for a second as he processed her words, her accusation, quickly replaced by a look of _understanding_ in his features. " _Oh_." He moved closer to her, slowly, until his knees touched the side of the mattress. “ _No, not you._ ” His fingers reached their familiar hold on her chin, bending down and bringing their faces close.

  
“Who, then? Who are you looking for?” She could feel her face redden at his touch, even in her fury. His eyes, still entertained, did not drift from hers.

  
“I’m a selfish man, Sansa. I wouldn’t let them have you.” His mouth moved closer, barely touching her lips with his. She was still, neither closing in nor turning away. “I want you to myself, you see.”

  
His teeth bared for an instant, nipping at her lower lip, then lips smoothed over where bone had grazed. Small, fleeting kisses were placed to the corners of her mouth. But he hadn’t answered her.

  
“Who?” She asked again, leaning in and accepting one of his embraces, a mutual brush of lips, before realizing what she'd done. _You can't do this again. You can't._ Her spine tilted away while her head drifted to the side.

  
And he was moving as well, gone from the bed and headed toward the door. He pulled out his phone again, pressing lightly on the  glossy covering with one hand. “If you wish to return, there’s a car waiting outside. Your choice; I won't force you.” He opened the door, beginning to slip through. “Oh, and the girl I’m looking for? _Your sister_.”  
  



	16. dew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the bluebirds flutter in my chest,  
> oh, they want to sing...  
> you'll have to break me open to hear anything.

_Arya._

  
The one name, _the only name_ , that could have convinced her to again cross the threshold of the familiar club, fingertips brushing the dew-covered railing leading inside. Despite what appeared to be a mutual disdain for the younger girl, Sansa knew she would endure anything if only to see her once more. Her sister, as far as she knew, was quite alone, constantly running from their dead family’s enemies. She might be just as friendless as Sansa was.

  
At least she had Ros. The woman would be waiting inside for her, maybe even genuinely concerned about her. Clinging to that thought was the required motivation to bring her feet through the door. She scanned the empty hallway, searching for the redhead, the one person in her life she might call a friend.

  
And what was Petyr to her? Was he her friend as well? He had been Littlefinger that morning, because she couldn’t call him Petyr then. It wasn’t _Petyr_ in the hotel room coaxing her back into his grip. It wasn’t _Petyr_ tapping away at his phone and strolling out of her attempted haven passively, as if she were a client or mild acquaintance. It had been Littlefinger’s clever tongue saying _just the right thing_ to keep her where he wanted, his narrowed eyes distant and icy. So clever, so callous.

  
It was easier in her unhinged mind to bisect him, divide him into good and bad. It seemed almost like a story her mother would have read to her, a terrible man with something better hidden deep inside. Petyr could sometimes seem human, after all; the way his fingers and mouth felt against her, how he might look worried every once in a while, a half-second moment easily missed. Petyr could be helpful, especially if he saw personal benefit from it. He may even, in some distant part of him, actually care about her. Littlefinger, conversely, was no more than a shrewd businessman looking for another scheme. He was a threat; he was the one she’d tried to escape.

  
Maybe she was humanizing him to make it easier. Miserably, she considered that there may not be a man behind the monster.

  
"You're back!" Red hair rushed into view at the end of the hall, the woman jogging to meet the girl, arms extended and ready to embrace. Sansa accepted the suffocating hug, letting the scent of her citrusy shampoo fill her nares.

  
“What were you thinking?” She grabbed her tighter, and the girl was instantly reminded of the first time she ran from Ros, the day at the shopping center. She found comfort there then, and now again as she willed herself to relax in her hold. _What was I thinking? Don’t you know who he’s looking for?_

  
Petyr and Ros worked toward a common goal; they dealt in money, in assets, in capital. Further than that their relationship seemed less clear to her than it had before. Ros appeared to be ignorant in regards to much of the man’s outside activity, moreso than even Sansa was.

  
Unwilling to guide Ros toward whatever machinations Petyr Baelish had dipped his fingers into, the girl settled for a tiny lie. “There was a man. He came into the bar while you were gone. He just…he scared me.” Not even a lie, _not truly._

  
Ros shushed her kindly, still holding onto her. “I know; we watched the camera footage after we realized you’d gone. We had no idea where you would go, what you were planning to do. Lucky that he’s good at finding things. He was furious, Bird.”

  
 _Furious._ Mad that he’d let her slip though the cracks, however temporary the escape might have been.  

  
“That man…he used to come here fairly often.” Ros released her and pulled her further inside, leading her up the stairs. “But he started harassing the girls, making them feel uncomfortable. Littlefinger didn’t like it, so he kicked him out. It didn’t go over well with him, things got a bit hairy for a few days. We thought he’d left for good…he hadn’t been back until last night.”

  
She nodded, setting her backpack on the floor of their living room, vaguely remembering the two of them talking about a man before, someone scaring the employees.

  
Ros stepped toward her, hands firmly gripping her shoulders. Sansa could recall seeing the same look on her mother’s face before, when she’d stay out too late or done poorly on an exam. It was the look she’d secretly hoped for; a look of worry. It meant that Sansa _mattered_ ; she mattered to Ros. “You shouldn’t have run off like that. I was frantic. You could have been murdered, someone could have found you.”

  
“I’m fine, I just panicked. When he grabbed me, I just…I thought about what happened before.” _With Joffrey_. She didn’t need to say it; Ros didn’t need to hear her speak the words to understand her distress.

  
“I want a promise, Sansa, right now.” _Sansa_. Ros had used her name. “That if you think of leaving again, you’ll come to me first.”

  
The word that came from her mouth sounded less sincere than she’d hope. “Okay.”

  
Not believable enough for Ros, apparently; fingers tightened on her clavicle. “I’m serious. Promise me.”

  
Where was the harm in confiding it to someone? In that moment she thought perhaps she should tell Ros the truth, tell her about her past, her plans to leave and yes, even about Petyr. She’d be angry, of course, but not forever. She could share the burden, loan it out to someone who cared about her.

  
 _No._ She pushed the idea away as soon as it fully formed. There was a great deal of harm, more than she wanted to admit. It would be another person to add to the list, an accomplice to whatever crimes Sansa Stark was guilty of. She had to remain distant to keep her safe.

  
“I promise.” _Another tiny lie._


	17. stool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she never finds her bearings  
> sucking splash into her lungs.

She couldn’t be sure how much consecutive sleep she actually managed to get; once she would finally near the familiar space between awake and not eyes flitted open again, denying her the rest she sought. Eventually, with a groggy but racing mind, she decided to put her nervous energy to use.

  
It wasn’t dawn yet, but it must have been nearing; small slivers of light would soon begin to show over the taller buildings surrounding hers. She made herself a cup of coffee and ventured downstairs, certain there’d be something requiring tidying; needing folded or washed or swept.

  
Setting the warm mug down she grabbed a broom from the closet and began sweeping the already-tidy floor. Eyes searched the ground, surveying each crack and corner for a speck of dust or dirt, all the while trying to avoid any other intrusive thoughts. The tactic that served her now was avoidance. She knew it was a poor choice, she knew she needed to do more than nothing at all.  
  
“I see you’ve made your decision.”

  
He was leaning against the wall of the bar, his only familiar post in the room, his arms crossed in a casual hold. She couldn't have said how long he'd been propped there; relaxed, _watching._

  
She stopped her movements to look over to him, eyes narrowing, registering. “What are you doing here?”

  
“I own the building, did you forget?” He took a few steps closer, until he was able to pry the wooden handle from her grasp. She let him take it, watching him as he loosely held it for a moment before dropping it to the floor. “What made you come back?”

  
“Don’t pretend you don’t know.” Sansa wanted to push him, hit him, scream at him. But no, she thought he might enjoy it. Instead she remained stoic, controlled. “You dangled her name in front of me. You knew I’d come back.”

  
 _Who was he now,_ she wondered. _Are you Petyr or Littlefinger?_ Rough hands grabbing the broom told her one story, but the way his eyes grew almost soft now told another. When he spoke it was quietly, as though his words might betray him. “I gave you an answer and let you make your own decision. Is that so wrong?”

  
“Stop that. Stop making it seem like you’re the good guy here.”

  
Whatever kindness she might have imagined was gone now; her response only seemed to amuse him. “I’m not the only one who seems to be something I’m not.” His fingers drifted to her, forming a loose grip on her waist. She remained unmoving, unable to make a decision. His face leaned in, mouth speaking to the side of her cheek. “I know what you’re capable of, and it’s so much more than this timid girl you’re pretending to be.”

  
It was then that she decided to move, arms raising to rest on his shoulders. _I can play this game as well._ “I’m not so timid now.”

  
 _How does he do it? Slither from one animal to the next so easily?_ Kindness, amusement, apathy and now a hunger in his eyes. The man was fluid in his actions, in his emotions, as though he would be caught if he lingered on one of them for too long. He guided her to the nearest barstool, setting her atop of it before tightening his hold on her sides. “No. Not so timid.” She could feel his breath trace downward until his lips rested against her neck, gently sucking on the sensitive skin between jaw and clavicle. Her knees inadvertently parted to allow him closer access, until her chest rubbed his own. And there it was, the contact she craved, the feeling of being close to someone. He would be able to feel her heart, she thought, so hard and fast it was beating.  
Her hand held the side of his face then, guiding it up until his mouth met hers.

  
And then he was moving, grinding, pushing the hardened form in his pants against her. It felt too good for her to stop him, even as he pressed his hand to her lower back, guiding her further toward him. He groaned into her mouth when she began to meet the pace his body set, attempting to create friction where she was beginning to ache.

  
“Would you let me fuck you? Right here, in this filthy bar? _I bet you would_.”

  
“I’d want something in return.” Her hand slid between them, fingers circling the button of this trousers. _Yes, I can be strong._

  
“Smart girl.” He pulled back slightly, until his eyes could lock with hers. The hand at her back flew to her front, into her cotton pyjama bottoms. Fingers instantly reached the spot she’d tried to hit with his earlier movements. His press was firm, ungentle, forcing a gasp from her mouth. “But you’re so new to the game. _You forget the rules._ ” Index and forefinger circled, slowly. “I could suck you here, lick you until you begged for my cock. Thing is, _I don’t need to negotiate._ ”

  
She was prepared to agree, ready to surrender her hold so long as his kept working. _God, why am I so weak?_  
  
Before she could speak, before she could give up the game, something made him stop. He was startled, staring behind her, backing away from her. Sansa turned, ready to run, ready to fight.

  
There was no need; it was only Ros standing at the doorway. Her attention was on Petyr, not the dishevelled girl on the barstool. “Hasn’t she been through enough?” She sounded so sad, so hurt.

  
For once, the man didn’t have an answer. Without another glance at either of them he left, the front door slamming in his wake. The older and younger woman were left alone in silence.  
Ros was the first to break it. “Oh, Sansa.”

  
That voice, that disappointment.


	18. metal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> someone...  
> oh anyone,  
> tell me how to stop this.  
> she's screaming, expiring,  
> and I'm her only witness.

Ros walked away, following the trail Petyr made several moments before. Sansa rushed after her, gently reaching to grab a shoulder, but the older woman shrugged her off as soon as she made contact. “Don’t, _just don’t_. I need some air.”

  
Disregarding the harsh words the girl remained at her heels, passing through the front door and out into the chilled early morning. Ros hurried half a block down the sidewalk until resigning to press her back against the brick building at her side. She looked tired, she looked exhausted as Sansa stood in front of her, not knowing what to expect. There was a heaviness on her chest, one she hadn’t felt in a long while. She had a strange urge, a desperate need to explain herself, to beg for forgiveness as she would to a mother or a sister.  
  
When Ros finally spoke it wasn’t filled with the sadness heard at the club; it was quietly steeped in ire, fury. Her hands flew up as if they meant to shake Sansa by the shoulders, distance being the only thing preventing the forceful movement. “You were supposed to tell me, Sansa, if he tried anything. What were you thinking?”

  
“I don't know, Ros, I’m sorry. I just-“ The words wouldn't come out in order, jumbling as she tried to explain. And what more was there to tell Ros anyway? The woman had watched it with her own eyes.

"You're a _child_." It was more of an accusation than a fact, lined with the anger, _the hurt_ , of betrayal.

Sansa felt a pulling need to defend herself. "I'm not." _If you had been there, if you had watched me kill him._.."I-"

  
“You what? Don’t you get it? You can’t trust a man like Littlefinger.”

  
“Who can I trust Ros?” Her voice was raising against her will, arms tensed at her sides, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms.

  
She smiled sadly, arms lowering. “You could trust me.”

  
 _You can’t protect me_ , she wanted to yell, but she kept the words behind tight lips. Before she could think of something better, something soothing to say she heard footsteps to the side, the gentle tapping of soles touching the sidewalk. It wasn't quite morning yet, too early for the businessmen and women to be hustling around for the day. Sansa turned, unwilling to make a show next to the club. Both women stopped speaking and looked to the stranger.

  
But he wasn’t a stranger at all; it was the man from the night before, the older man who caused Sansa to flee from the bar. He was strolling idly toward them, a side glance at the entrance to the club before he recognised that the girls engaged in heated discussion were employees as opposed to just arguing friends. His dark coat trailed down to his knees, a thick scarf was loose around his neck. Sansa could feel her skin crawl, unsure if her body was finally recognizing the cold air or if it was the man causing the raised flesh.

  
“Is he here?” The bald man asked politely, as if they were friendly acquaintances.

  
“He just left.” Sansa could see the woman’s hands were trembling as she spoke, jaw clenched as soon as the words left her mouth.

  
“He was supposed to be here. I had… _an appointment_.” The man articulated each syllable carefully; it almost sounded like a threat.

  
“He was in a hurry.” Ros appeared reluctant to divulge any other piece of information to him. She reached in her pocket to grab her mobile, not breaking her gaze.

  
“ _Shame_. Because that deadline? It’s been moved up.” He looked to Sansa then, swiftly reaching a hand into his long coat. “You’ll want to let him know that, _little girl_.”

  
 _Why are you telling me this?_ He was ignoring Ros, and as the man pulled metal from his pocket Sansa learned why. Her world slowed to a near-halt as she watched, helplessly ( _always helplessly and always someone she cares for_ ). The shot was silent, much quieter than the weapon that had been in her own hands a lifetime ago, though it didn’t make it less powerful. The bullet embedded itself in the brick behind them, but not before meeting it’s goal.

  
 _Red mixed with red._

  
Sansa forgot she had lungs, forgot she needed to breath.

  
The man turned, not even waiting for the victim to fall to the ground, certain the shot struck where he’d intended. And it did; a strangled gasp was the only noise made into the predawn light as Sansa threw her out her arms, trying to guide Ros down gently until her head was cradled in the girl's lap, blood slowly pooling from the occipital exit wound.

  
She couldn’t think, couldn’t move beyond holding Ros’s temples, staring at twitching, glazed-over eyes. She felt dissociated, numb as the man turned a corner two blocks away.  
She sat, unsure of the time, unsure of how long it would be before someone stopped to help. Their neighbours might not be awake just yet but surely someone would have heard the gunshot. _Should I scream? Yell for help?_ Her thoughts were oddly lucid as she weighed her limited options.

  
She reached down to the dead woman’s hand, still barely touching her phone. Calmly, Sansa scrolled the contacts page until she found his number, pressing the SEND button under his name.

  
She counted the rings as though she were learning how to count in primary school. _One...two...three...four.._.

  
“What?” Petyr snapped on the other end of the line.

  
Startled by his tone, Sansa found herself unable to speak.

  
“Ros, you know you shouldn’t call me unless it’s an emergency. I’m not in the mood to explain myself right now.” _Oh. This isn’t my phone. He doesn’t know._

_He doesn’t understand._

  
Her words were slow, tranquil. “I…I can’t leave her, Petyr.”

  
“…Sansa? Why are you using this phone? Explain yourself.” He sounded off, distant, wrong somehow.

  
She wanted to explain, she wanted to tell him everything, but her vision had blurred and any focus she'd retained was gone. The feeling left her arms. It started at her shoulders which fell forward slowly to a slump, almost protectively around the lifeless woman in her lap. Next her elbows began to grow numb. Fingers then, lost grip on the phone. She managed to breathe out three more words before the device dropped along with hands. _God, if only I could cry._

  
“Please come back.”  
  
She could see the flashing lights, the ambulance pulling in front of them. She watched paramedics listlessly as they pried Ros away from blood-stained lap, leaving her sitting alone on the concrete. She felt, but did not register, hands pulling her up from behind, digging into her armpits until finally, unable to persuade her to stand on her own, arms scooped her up and carried her like a child. Like the child she told Ros she wasn't. Her head rested on the form’s shoulder, catching a glimpse of greying temple before she closed her eyes.


	19. bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and I wish that I could provide  
> the kind of weapons money don't buy.  
> together we'd go hunting through  
> the hollows of our hearts,  
> and kill the things that keep us down,  
> and cut the strings to which our fears seem bound.  
> you kiss the flicker of the flames that burn us out from within

  
She was resting on her back, somewhere soft, somewhere vaguely remembered in her cloudy mind. Fingers moved at her sides, feeling around, assessing her location. She recognised the smooth sheets gathered between digits as they stretched and skirted around, eyes still closed.

  
_His bed._

  
Memories flooded back. Ros, the bald man, the gun. All the blood…it seemed a greater quantity than before, than with Joffrey. But she had done the work herself that time, pulled the trigger with a trembling grip, aiming for boy’s heart.

  
_Head wounds must bleed more_ , she thought absently, numbly.

  
But it hurt to think, caused a ceaseless throbbing between temples and down her occiput, and so she tried to think of nothing, pushing it all away. Her efforts were proving fruitless; it all swam in and out of her head without relief. Until she heard movement in the room.  
  
“Are you alright?” A voice asked.

  
She didn’t answer. Maybe if she closed her eyes again, maybe if she didn’t acknowledge that anything happened it would all go away. She’d wake up at home, at her old house, to the sounds and smells of her mother making breakfast. Her father, her brothers, Arya, they’d all be safe. They’d laugh at her, when she told them the awful dream she’d had. They’d tell her there wasn’t anything to worry about.

  
_No_ , if she thought of that, of all she’d lost, she was sure to lose her mind as well. She could be strong, even now.  
   
Finally, dry eyelids drug open and she willed herself to look at him.

  
He was more disheveled than she’d ever seen him; sleeves pulled haphazardly up to his wrists, phone gripped tightly in hand. Blood splatters were dried around the white buttons of his shirt. His eyes, normally so apathetic, were uncontrolled as he analysed her for any injury. Somehow the image gave her comfort; the man could feel after all. There was something hazily human about him in that moment, so far from the masked man she was used to.

  
He had left her in her clothes, and she wasn’t sure whether to thank him or cringe at the gore of it. Her cottony pants were still damp with thick crimson, too copious to have dried completely. Her hands reached out to rearrange the garment where it was unblemished, as if tidying it might make it look less macabre.

  
“Answer me.” He said, his tone near to an order.

  
“Should I be?” _Of course I’m not, you stupid man.  
_

  
“Are you _wounded_?” He corrected himself, hovering above her, staring down.

  
“No. No, I’m fine. Ros was the only…” _The only one hurt. Well, more than hurt._  
  
He nodded slowly, seemingly relieved as he began peeling apart his shirt, unbuttoning along stained material as he went. "We have to talk about what happened tonight, Sansa."

She could feel the creases around her eyelids go taut as the spaces widened. "I can't-"

"It doesn't need to be right now, but soon. You know what happens next."

 _Of course._ There'd be police, an investigation. She wondered how he'd deferred them at the scene; they must have wanted to speak with her. She forced herself to sit up, watching him work at the clothing on his chest. "Petyr...she-"

" _Stop._ " The man stepped forward until he met the side of the bed.

"No. It's my fault." _Our fault, really._ She had to say it, she had to admit it. Ros wouldn't have been outside at all if they hadn't been there, in the bar. "She just wanted to protect me."

"It wasn't her job." A knee propped up to the edge of the mattress where she remained. He lacked any humour or hardness; the look he gave her was starved, nearly deranged, drawing nearer to her. She was sure she had a similar appearance on her own face; she was willing to accept any distraction, any way to remove herself from reality. Her face felt warm, the heat creeping down the back of her neck and further still. 

He shrugged off the stained fabric, exposing his chest to her as he bent toward her. Her first reaction was to cringe at the sight of it; a jagged, pink scar that rested mid-sternum, glaring openly at her. Before she could ask the man about the mark, before she could fully register what was happening, he was pressing himself against her, unconcerned about her own soiled clothing.

  
And when his mouth covered hers she didn’t protest, but met it hungrily, desperate for some sort of comfort. His taste was an amalgamation of the cigarettes her mother used to smoke when she was upset and the mint chewing gum Sansa kept in her purse. She pulled it all in, the saliva, the need. There was a hint of a coppery taste as well, mixed in-between unrelenting tongues, in-between the mutual grief. She didn’t squirm away or refuse when he lifted the shirt from her body, feeling up and down her sides before pulling stained pants and underwear down below her legs and onto the floor. She didn’t stop him from pressing his chest into hers, rubbing his hardness still covered by his trousers against her.

  
It felt so good to forget, to ignore anything but her body's basest, most primitive responses. Her arms wrapped around his neck, clinging as teeth and tongues fought against each other. There was no teasing, no soft nips to flesh now; it was all harsh and unyielding connections. Her bra was flipped upward, no time for it to be unclasped, as he moved down her collarbone and took a breast in his mouth, sucking roughly while fingers unzipped his pants, the last barrier between them.

  
She should care, she should tell him to stop, but she couldn’t. Not with Ros gone and everyone gone and the way he was touching her, feeling her. She felt warm under him, she felt safe, and every time he flicked his tongue against a hardened nipple it sent a shock below her abdomen.

  
She cried out when he thrust into her with little warning; one long push and he had taken her, filled her completely. She felt torn, ripped, _but at least she felt_. Clinging to him, loosing a sob into his mouth while salty water accumulated around her eyes.

  
This evening was all blood, all pain, and so she found it fitting to bleed for him now. Everyone else had bled, save them.

  
He pulled out, and in again, beginning a slow tempo, groaning into her mouth at each new press. Somewhere in the middle of the hurting she found a building need, a growing desire to meet each undulation, to chase the pulse she felt directly above his movements. Noises, uninhibited and full of both a newly learned pleasure and the pain of loss began to spill from her lips, manifesting as warm moans against his skin, demanding his pace quicken.

  
He obeyed, moving into her, following the commands her body and vocal cords ordered.

  
And then she reached it, the goal she’d been running after, a great crashing feeling started between her legs and radiated to every nerve ending. He followed just after, his face nearly pained at he stilled deep within her, and she could feel a different sort of warmth, something new.

  
She looked up at him, wide eyed now that the throbbing was subsiding. And he stared down as well, still within her, mirroring the same unhinged stare.

 


	20. shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you want everything to be just like  
> the stories that you read but never write.

Her hands were shaking as they twisted the knob labeled “COLD” on the shower. Water sputtered out immediately, drenching pale limbs in a freezing rain. The matching knob for a more reasonable temperature was disregarded; she didn’t need heat. The cold was cathartic while the blood-tinged seed was cleansed from her body. She stared at her feet as wet tendrils of hair spilled around her face, watching the fluid slither down her legs, wondering if she would feel unclean, soiled, when she stepped out of the pristine white bathroom.

  
The lingering stains would still be there, she knew, even if they couldn’t be seen. Her thighs would remember the blood of her friend. Fingers might claw and scrub furiously, until her skin was raw and bruised and burning, but she would be able to see it. And even if the small copper implant inside of her functioned as it was supposed to, prevented any chance of pregnancy, that warmth she felt hours ago was still there, even as it was washed from her. He would still be there.

  
The man had been gone when she woke up. It was sometime around the afternoon, judging by the angle the sunlight hit the crumpled sheets on the bed. The space next to hers carried no lingering warmth as digits skimmed the fabric. Had he left directly after, or rested with her? She couldn’t remember, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to. Images of skin arching against skin, of sweat and greedy desperation were all she could see.

She was sore, the place between her legs ached each time she shifted the weight of her body. Her mother hadn’t told her how much it hurt, how she would feel torn, how she would cry out. She hadn’t told her how sweet the release was, how her muscles would clench and her breath would stop, or the way he would moan against her, holding her with tensed arms as if she was an anchor. And maybe she was; a ballast, an attempt to maintain equilibrium. Somehow she hoped it wasn’t true; her own mooring was unsteady enough, how could she carry another?

  
She reached for the citrus-smelling bar of soap as the only tangible remnants of their frantic interaction lazily circled the drain. Small goals for the day surfaced in her head, seemingly enormous tasks. She would clean herself up, put on a fresh set of clothing and seek him out.

 

 

 

He was back in his office, not a thread out of place on his clean shirt. His hair, so mussed just hours ago, was neat and orderly again. He clicked away on his laptop, not bothering to glance up at the girl after she closed the door out of habit more than anything; the club entrance remained quite locked after the mayhem. They were the only ones in the establishment.

  
The light of the screen gave his face as eerie glow as he focused on his work. At first when he spoke the words sounded so detached that she wasn’t sure if he was addressing her or the computer. “The investigators will be stopping by in an hour. You’ll want to think about what you’re going to tell them.”

  
“What should I say?” _You’re supposed to be helping me._ She couldn’t stop the venom from lacing her words. “That it was my fault? Your fault? That one of the missing Stark girls has been in the city all along, hiding in plain sight?”

  
He kept tapping away, intent on whatever he was doing. “You were frightened, weren't you? And it was _oh so dark_ , wasn’t it? It would have been difficult for you to see him properly, don’t you think?” He was distant, as though it was a client he was speaking to.

  
“So you want me to lie.” _Always lies._

  
“It would benefit us to keep him out of jail, Sansa.” His eyes were still fixed on the screen, his mouth contorted slightly, lips tightening with impatience.

  
“Why? Then he can just come back.” _Maybe he’ll kill me next time. I’m so far overdue._

  
“He won’t.” He seemed outwardly annoyed at her questions then, letting out a sigh and bringing a hand up to his temple. “Wear something modest, and put on a brown wig. Try to match it to my hair colour if you can.” He spoke with a finality; clearly he meant for the conversation to be over.

  
She fought an urge to laugh; what had she really expected? Had she hoped she would wake up in his arms with her nose buried in the crook of his neck, a soft smile on his face? Did she anticipate some sort of post-coital change in him; a tenderness neither knew he had? Foolish thoughts, if she had them at all; _he wasn’t that sort of man_. She doubted he ever had been.

  
Too exhausted, too miserable to stay and argue she turned on a heel to leave, resolving to plan their next conversation more carefully. Her face was warm with embarrassment and fury as she briskly moved to the door handle.

  
“And Sansa…”

  
The girl turned, eyes narrowed as she looked back to the man, waiting for him to speak.

  
He looked up at her, an eyebrow raised, appearing amused by her expression. And how did he have the capacity to feel amused after everything that had happened? “There’s a difference between justice and vengeance. Think about which one you’re after.” He leaned back in his seat, bringing his hands together on the desk for form a steeple, face growing serious for a moment. “I can only help you with one.”


	21. notepad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i melt right into my seat  
> you gave me just what I need.  
> i'm falling back to the sea  
> retaste the salt on my teeth.

She told the investigators her name was Alayne.

  
Dressed _modestly_ , as directed, she wore a grey and white sweater and black slacks, purchases made during her last shopping trip with Ros. False hair hung loosely on her shoulders; the red secured tightly underneath until no hint could be detected. Even eyebrows had their own brownish hue added to them, a trick she’d picked up from the girls of the club. Lashes were painted to conceal the last lingering auburn on her. She wore no other makeup. 

  
The lies had become easier, she’d found, more she practiced. Eyes began to water as if on cue; the glistening around her cheeks moved in time with hesitant words whispered through quivering lips. Despite the pained expression displayed on her face, it was almost without effort that she was able to whimper out a vague tale of a figure barely visualised attacking in the night. Littlefinger’s words spilled from her mouth; the darkness, the confusion, the terror she’d felt. Who would be able to recognise a man in that scenario? Certainly not the timid child in front of them.

  
Her hands shook; her complexion was drained of any rosy hue. Sansa knew even before she began to speak that they would be fooled. It wasn’t completely an act, after all, and Petyr once mentioned that most good lies are grounded in truth.

  
The two blue-suited men seemed to be kind, sitting patiently across from the frightened girl while they listened to her pitiful recount of the night before. They would nod and encourage her to continue when fear or grief would overcome her, brown hair falling in front of her face. Practiced hands would jot down a note once or twice on a small pad of paper.

  
Her vision would occasionally veer to the man seated behind his desk, watching the interaction with unreadable eyes. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t speak when her own words would falter. She might have forgotten he was in the room at all, if any other man happened to be sitting in his place. But even passively, quietly, the man demanded her attention. He demanded her confusion, her anger, and despite herself, she wanted to impress him.

  
A tiny voice in the back of her mind quietly told her what she was afraid to say aloud: _he’s all you have now._

  
It might have been that thought alone that kept the tears at a steady pace.

  
When she went silent, indicating she had nothing more to say, the men finally stood, straightening their shirts and preparing to leave. One of them extended a hand for her to shake. “That’s very helpful. Thank you, Alayne.” As her own fingers gingerly circled the callused offering she wondered if they said that to all of their witnesses. Considering how brief and unsure her story was they can’t have gleaned much.

  
They turned to face Littlefinger, each addressing him with their own accusing stares, as if the green-eyed man was the criminal they were searching for. “What’s a young girl doing working at a place like this in the first place?”

  
For a moment, Sansa thought he would not answer. Her heart leaped, chest tightening, worried he wouldn’t speak at all. After a few breaths, however, she was relieved to hear the familiar, rough tone of his voice. “She’s eighteen, old enough.” He said the words simply. When it was clear the investigator wasn’t satisfied with his brief explanation, one of them crossing his arms impatiently, Littlefinger continued. “She isn’t a stripper; she cleans the club.”

  
They were still unimpressed with his explanation. “Don’t you think it’s a little despicable? Hiring a child for that kind of work?” The looks on their faces suggested they were visualising floors stained with various bodily fluids along with poles and bathrooms in desperate need of scrubbing.

  
The man in question smiled genially at the officers; not a trace of offence would be seen on his features. Littlefinger’s eyes flicked back to hers. “You don’t mind it, do you _daughter_?”

  
 _Ah._ She should have known that would be his game from the wig she was asked to wear. A tentative tilt of the mouth creeped over her features, dried tears still clung to her cheeks. Her sleeve-covered wrist moved to wipe at her face. “No, not at all, father.”

  
Littlefinger rose as well then, preparing to see the men out. He took several steps until he was directly behind the girl pretending to be his child. “As you can see, she’s still quite upset. I’m sure she’d like to rest.” His hands rubbed her shoulders in a gesture of comfort, remaining for a just a second longer than what would be a _fatherly_ touch. The men didn't notice. “If you gentlemen are finished…”

  
“Yes, yes of course. We have a few questions for you as well, Mr. Baelish, if you’d step outside with us.” Petyr nodded and led them out, leaving her alone again.  
  



	22. tie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone?  
> the subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone.

She couldn’t sleep there, not in the apartment. Not without Ros in the room next to hers. It felt wrong, and more than that, _it hurt._

Her feet were firmly planted in the middle of the guest room, unable to make the few steps to the bed; she was not prepared and not willing to tuck herself under those familiar sheets.

The alternative option wasn’t tempting, but she decided on it anyway. Her fingers gripped a pillow against her chest as she padded through the dark hallway toward his office. He would surely be gone by now; off to his real home, wherever that was. Did he have a family? Did he own a house or rent an apartment? Questions that ought to have been answered prior to moaning underneath him.

When an out-turned palm pushed the door open she realised she wasn’t the only one in the club after all. He was sitting on the end of the bed, bent forward, slowly unlacing the strings to his shined shoes. She stood, unmoving, watching his slender fingers work at the knot. Slipping each shoe off carefully and setting them aside, he sat up and regarded the girl. “Trouble sleeping?” One tired eyebrow raised in her direction. A dark green tie was loose around his neck, shifted to one side of his collared white shirt. He was wearing a different outfit from earlier in the day; she must have missed him leave and come back.

“It’s just…the apartment. It feels empty without her.” She fidgeted awkwardly, preparing to make the journey back upstairs.

He watched her for a moment, tugging at his tie before it was loosened enough to pull from over his head. Once it was set down next to his leg he relaxed forward, leaning elbows on knees, still looking at the girl. “Come here.” His lips were slightly parted, eyes never leaving hers as she hesitantly moved toward him, tossing the pillow beside him on the bed. When she was close enough he extended an arm to her, and as soon as she presented her hand he yanked her forward. Knees spread, allowing closer contact.

“Were you going to sleep here tonight?” Sansa looked down at him. An odd warmth in her abdomen was forming, spreading downward at their contact. She might have remembered it from before, but it had been so rushed; almost no time to concentrate on sensation.

He didn’t answer. Green eyes stared straight ahead, fixed on her stomach, but not really _seeing_ anything. His fingers found either side of her waist, sliding just underneath her cotton pants. They grazed there, eyes narrowing slightly, almost as if he was debating what to do next. Making a decision, he began to pull them down, inch by inch. Her own hands, unsure of themselves, braced his shoulders while he worked. Lungs filled and deflated evenly; her focus was on keeping her breath steady while his thumbs trailed along her thighs after her clothes. She was on edge; his motions creating tiny sparks along her skin, nerves coming alive, all traveling to her centre.

Once the fabric met the ground he pulled her by the hips until she was straddling him. She couldn’t halt the gasp expelled at the shift, grabbing harshly at his arms for support. She could feel him, hard already; her bare skin against his black slacks. Before she could readjust his fingers found her, teasing where she was beginning to throb.

It was wrong, _it was always wrong_. For a moment she found it didn’t matter; the guilt and hurt had formed a mountain of insurmountable height. It was nearly worth it; a few more metres to add to the pile if she could have a handful of blissful seconds to forget everything.

Index and middle digit sunk into her, causing her to buck forward toward him. Suddenly it wasn’t enough to simply _forget_ ; memories of the night before, of feeling him inside of her, surfaced to the front of her mind. Her hands flew to his zipper, pulling and tugging just enough to free him. A groan escaped the man as she held him loosely, his grip on her tightening as he drew her closer against him in preparation.

It wasn’t as painful as the night before; Sansa was nearly relieved when she sunk onto him, pelvises coming flush against each other. She let a moaning breath outward onto his still-clothed shirt, not willing to meet his lips with her own. She didn’t want to kiss him then; she just wanted to _feel_.

And did he know this was her first time atop a man, or fully grasp what he’d taken the night before? Of course he knew. He would have seen the blood, would have heard her painful cries.

“You did well today.” He spoke into her hair, one hand holding onto the back of her head while the other remained at her waist, helping to guide her clumsy movements. While they matched nearly in time with one another at a slow, lazy pace, an odd, equal mixture of pride and fury began to touch the sides of her mind. Was she meant to thank him for the compliment? That she was good at deception?

Being a formidable liar wouldn't bring her friend back.

A sentence bubbled to the surface toward her mouth; steeped in malice. A year ago the words wouldn’t have even crossed her thoughts, but she was adapting, evolving to fit her new life; a world with a man who carried years of practice in the trade she was so new to. “It should have been you.” _Not Ros_. Words softly spoken, her lips directly against his ear. If this was a game, she would learn to play. Her arms shifted back, hands pressing against his chest. With a single heave she pushed him down, supine on the bed. Her knees crept up to accommodate their change in position, and she began a faster pace, face buried against his neck so she couldn’t see his reaction.

Still, she could almost _feel_ his smile against auburn tendrils. “Do you think so?” His hips bucked upward with a groan, moving both of them closer to the headboard. The force caused a ripple of pain at her core, a reminder that she was still sore from their first encounter. Teeth clenched, locking in a surprised cry. Gaining her bearings again, she planted palms on either side of him, resuming her pace. The man continued, speaking between quick, measured breaths up to her. “Would Ros be underneath you in my place, giving you comfort?”

His words stung; the mention of her name opened the raw wound. Sansa’s undulations became harder, attempting to chase the feeling that was fast slipping away at his question. “If it had been you,” she brought herself closer, aiming for her response to bite like his did, “ _I wouldn’t need comfort_.”

Without warning he wrapped his arms around her torso and flipped them both until he was atop her, still inside of her. One hand resumed his hold on her head, keeping her face toward his. He took her mouth, prying it open with his tongue, a deeper kiss than she could recall from the night before. She reasoned, if he was preoccupied with their mouths he could no longer torment her with his words, and so her own lips and jaw responded in kind.

Her legs wrapped around him and he began the quickened rhythm anew. They were too close then to be concerned with stinging banter, each greedily meeting the other in a hasty, discordant tempo. “Come, Sansa.” Their kiss broke as he reached to grasp one of her thighs, half moaning in her ear. “ _Now._ ” The sharpness in his tone was overtaken by a hungry entreaty. If it had been Littlefinger taunting her moments before, the dynamic had somehow changed; it was Petyr against her then. That thought was what sent her over, building and crashing under him.


	23. chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it rattles my lungs, but my mind is  
> tangled between your little flaws  
> your flaws, your flaws, your flaws.

He slowed his movements inside her, his open mouth against her neck as she struggled to catch her breath. But his thrusts began again before her pulsing relief fully subsided, pushing into her with renewed vigour. Her arms wrapped around him as an anchor, steadying herself against his uneven strokes. Already she could feel the pressure building again, each time he retreated her hips moved of their own accord, chasing him. It took no time at all for the man above her to give a final press inward, his open mouth released a harsh, heated breath at her collar.

  
That warmth again, still so foreign to her, could be felt.

  
Once, when Sansa had gained enough youthful courage to tentatively inquire about sex, her mother told her she would know when she was ready. There would be someone she loved, someone who loved her in return, and she would just _know_ that it was the right time, as if a switch would suddenly turn on, granting her the gift of knowledge and experience. For a long time she’d childishly held onto that vague advice.

  
After a while, when she was courted by Joffrey, her mother stopped saying those words to her, and used phrases such as “duty” and “family” in a frightened sort of replacement. Sansa knew why; there would be no passionate epiphany for her, no light switch flicked upward. She had resigned herself years ago to an unhappy ending.

And here she was, and somehow she still wasn't prepared.

  
He pulled out of her without a word. She sucked in a quick inhalation at his retraction; the temporarily forgotten soreness taking hold again. Would there be more blood, mixed with the fast cooling fluid already sliding down her thighs? Would it always make her ache?

  
Petyr, and she was sure it was him now and not his duplicitous alter ego, turned onto his back, far enough away from her for there to be no contact. She turned to look at the man, watching him run a hand across his face, slowly, as if he might be trying to clear his mind. After a moment, the arm reached above his head and under, forming a pillow under his occiput.

  
A few moments of quiet, Petyr watching the ceiling in quiet rumination, chest returning to an even motion to match a slowing heartbeat. He was still staring upward as he spoke. “Joffrey never fucked you.” It wasn’t a question. Sansa supposed it was the only indication she would get that he knew what he took the night before.

  
“Cersei wouldn’t let him.” Although she was certain it wouldn’t have stopped him for much longer. Joff had been growing tired of simple brutality; her family’s death would surely have been equal to a green light for different sorts of physical advances. But she didn’t have to say it aloud; anyone who had known the terrible boy would have known that.

  
No more was said on the matter. Eventually Sansa’s eyes drooped, exhaustion taking hold as she listened to the man’s consistent expirations to help lull her to sleep.  
  
Sometime before morning, it happened again.

  
She groggily crept back into consciousness at the sensation of hands on her waist, slipping underneath the shirt she retained from earlier. A bare chest against her back; he must have removed his own clothes. The hair on his sternum rubbed coarse against her spine as he felt his way upward, taking the fabric with him, fingers raising enough to graze a nipple until it hardened. She squirmed, half desiring to pull away and half wanting more, unsure of how exactly to react. Before she could fully respond, he was already working his way down again until he reached between her thighs. He would be able to feel a growing wetness there already, just as she could feel the hardness pressed against her lower back.

  
Her eyes opened, but she saw little; he must have turned the lights off as well. She could barely visualise the outlines of furniture in the room.

  
He turned her, supine again, and positioned himself atop her. It could be better, in darkness; the shadows obstructing her vision. He could be anyone, anyone at all. Maybe even someone who cared about her, some person from the stories her mother had concocted for her.

But it wasn't; it was Petyr, it was Littlefinger. He was unmoving above, arms firmly planted on either side of her. Even without light she knew he was waiting, waiting for consent this time.  

  
She wondered, between the growing distraction of him and her own building desire, if he did care. He must; to have kept her safe, to have risked his own life, to have sacrificed his trusted employee. And it _had_ been a sacrifice, she would not be convinced otherwise; a beautiful woman presented to the city’s deities for their appeasement, for a promise of a longer deadline to deliver what they wanted. Blood for time, blood for payment.

  
But the girl had learned the truth; _they weren’t gods_ , as much as they seemed to be. They could bleed; they could be killed. Sansa knew firsthand, and Petyr, the clever man that he was, had caught the scent of blood on her and snatched her away from harm. She was a killer; and he was the only other who could claim that knowledge.

  
He wouldn’t be able to see the resolve in her eyes, or the way her jaw set grimly for a moment. But she would make sure he felt it. Her hands moved up, hands cupping either side of greying temples to bring him down to meet her mouth.

There was no family, no duty any longer, unless she found the girl first.


	24. remote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm gonna tell you something you don't want to hear,  
> i'm gonna show you where it's dark, but have no fear.

She was surprised to find that he stayed until the morning.

  
A gentle shifting of the mattress signalled his presence, and her eyes slowly opened to see the man sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to her. He was leaning forward, rubbing his face with his hands. Was it frustration or fatigue that caused his slouching posture, his tensed body? A mixture of the two?

  
She was silently pleased he wasn’t facing her, suddenly aware of her bare form. The sheet was trapped underneath him; any attempt to clutch the material and bring it hastily to herself would signal her cognisance to him. And so she remained still, appreciating the temporary advantage of seeing the man without his awareness; to watch his measured breathing without fear of _conversation._

  
Blue eyes studied him; the way his hair was mussed from his hands running through it. And her own hands had done the same only hours before, digits intertwining into his greying strands among more chestnut strays as his tongue circled a breast, fingers pumping in and out of her. And what choice did she have, then, but to drive her hips upward, toward his beckoning index and middle?

  
She analysed the vertebrae traveling down his unmarred back, and she recalled the way her fingers journeyed along his spine, sliding between bone and cartilage, clinging to him when he finally filled her again. The gasping sigh she breathed at their connection only urged him on in the most vexing sort of way; instead of a quickened tempo he lead with a languid pace, designed to _incite_. And it did inflame her, shamefully; although there had been no real room for shame, no real room for anything but profanity, locked and writhing underneath him.

  
_That was the point,_ in the end.

  
And his lean arms, how they’d supported him on either side of the girl when he spilled again, stilling inside of her as he pressed inward and she pulled him deeper, old seed mixing with new. And then the moment she craved; the fleeting sensation of nerves alight, a few seconds of tingling amnesia. The lingering shudder and pillars of support were soon removed, however; replaced with the familiar emptiness atop her as he turned away again, removing himself entirely. In response, Sansa had pressed her eyes together tightly, turning on a side away from him and wrapping her arms around herself until a fitful sleep took her.

  
It didn’t seem real to her. It felt like a story she’d read, or a movie, something she’d watched from afar. It made it easier to stomach that way, if she thought of her life as someone else’s. Soon, Sansa knew, she would have to come to terms with it; that Ros was dead, that the dried fluid still between her legs was Petyr’s, and worse: _that she might have enjoyed it._

  
Pulled back to the present, she watched him stand, arms lifting upward in a feline stretch. It was strange, as eyes stared at him unknowingly, that he was still so unfamiliar to her, considering the intimacy they’d shared. Petyr didn’t turn, instead he bent forward to grab his winkled shirt from the ground before leaving the room without a word.  
  
She rotated onto her back, deciding to stay in the room instead of following him out, unsure of what she would have said to him anyway. Minutes passed, and Sansa remained in bed, staring at the ceiling. Imagines of the night before flitted in and out of her mind, of his warm body against hers. And he _had_ been warm; such a comforting change from the cold man she knew. _And he wanted her_ , hadn’t he proved that with his touch, with his urgency?

  
But it had been a mistake; a poor decision made out of grief, out of an urge to escape her own clawing turmoil. Her feet crept tentatively toward a precipice, toes inching further toward the edge with each passing day, with every time they joined. One more misstep and she knew it might be her last.

  
It had to stop.

  
She was so focused on her own thoughts that the sound of a throat clearing startled her, body tensing toward the doorway. A reposed Petyr had walked back in, no sign of the strained version she’d seen leaning on the edge of his bed. A new set of clothes, hair orderly again; he was Littlefinger returned. A long, black remote control rested in the man’s right palm.

  
His eyes traced her body, unabashedly, slowly following her curves until he met her stare. “We’re closed for the rest of the week.” The remote turned in his fingers lazily. “Tell my employees they’re expected back on Saturday.”

  
Was she the new Ros, then? Had the transition happened so quickly in his mind? Instead of asking, Sansa simply nodded, fingers at last finding the sheet to cover herself. She pulled it against her chest, hands balled into fists below her chin. She saw him smirk as she felt her face grow warm, indignation fast replacing any embarrassment.

  
If he cared, he was hiding it well; the tilt of his mouth remained. The man tossed the remote onto the bed next to her. “At noon there’s going to be an announcement. You’re going to want to watch it.”

  
“What sort of announcement?” She couldn’t hide the ire in her tone, and it only seemed to fuel his amusement.

  
“You’ll see.” He turned on a heel, facing away from her. Before he passed through the door he paused. She could tell, even without seeing, that the smile was gone from his face. “And after you watch it, don’t do anything foolish.”  



	25. podium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the pretty children sharpening their blades  
> where my daughter passes only ruins remain.

_Foolish._

  
She’d already demonstrated how foolish she was, how foolish she could be. Hadn’t she proved it twice in one night? Only a senseless girl would allow a man like Petyr Baelish to touch her, to make her thrust upward in a chase against him. Only an irrational girl would revel in it.

  
Still, Sansa did as she was told, dutifully calling the girls and giving them the news. She swept, scrubbed and washed. She waited, absently staring at the clock. She avoided the apartment, not daring to venture near the stairs leading upward. Eventually she’d have to open the familiar door, if only to grab fresh clothing, but she convinced herself it was a battle for later in the day, after the television had been turned off.

  
There was another grating worry on her mind; where should she sleep? She wondered if Petyr would be back again in the evening, if there would be certain expectations now between them. Perhaps if she learned to tolerate sleeping in the apartment she could avoid the man altogether, avoid giving in.

  
In the end, they were just more silly thoughts.  

  
Just before noon the girl turned on the flatscreen at the end of the bar, taking a seat on the polished, wooden counter. Fear crept into the corners of her mind. What information could be important enough to necessitate news coverage? Was Littlefinger finally selling her out, now that he’d taken what he wanted? Would there be a team waiting outside for her, ready to snatch her up?

  
No, he wouldn’t dare; he had something else planned; she was sure of it. If only she knew what the plan was.

  
Focusing back on the screen, she could see that the camera was already angled in the direction of whatever the broadcast was going to be, and Sansa was all too familiar with the location. The footage was aimed at the front steps of the Lannister’s company, a red and gold decorated platform raised for the occasion. A few moments passed while the girl watched the empty podium, listening to the announcement predictions by some unnamed and unseen bubbly reporter. Her knuckles were white, clasped around the remote.

  
Ten minutes later, the woman was such a fan of keeping up the suspense, Cersei Lannister entered into sight, flanked by two policemen and followed by her stoic father. A familiar-looking girl with dark hair trailed behind with another officer. In the background, standing in the mass of advisors, stood an innocuous Petyr Baelish. For a second, she caught him staring straight into the camera at her, a slight smile near to showing on his lips. He wanted her to see.

  
Whatever the news was, he had been part of it.

  
The woman looked ethereal, standing there. Sansa could remember wanting to be like her, to _be_ her; the confidence, the wit, it was all so appealing. She used to practice being bold and engaging in front of her mirror, emulating the lioness with pride. But that was before she knew what seared under the surface; the gnawing, malicious person that hid beneath the mask. She was a murderer. Maybe not with her own hands, but it was her mouth gave the commands, her eyes that watched. Now, when she looked at the woman, all she saw was her father’s face. She saw his silent last plea for his children to live before they killed him.

  
Cersei silenced the crowd with her eyes alone. “I have very exciting news.” She spoke seemingly without humour, but Sansa knew the woman well enough to see she was nearly gloating. “I’m going to skip the formalities; I’m sure you’re all very eager to know why you’ve been called here today. We will answer all questions at a reception following this press release; we ask that you save your words until then.” A pause, as the blonde woman’s mouth tiled up. “Thanks to the tireless efforts of police and search parties, and to my personal advisor Petyr Baelish, I’m relieved and delighted to announce Ayra Stark has been found, alive and well.”

  
The group erupted in a wave of unintelligible noise; lights from camera flashes transforming the scene into a strobing frenzy. Cersei just smiled, taking it in and beckoning the girl at her side forward. She was thin; dark hair and grey eyes with a shy smile playing on her features. The officers and Cersei appeared to be waiting for the crowd to calm down before they let her speak.

  
But Sansa didn’t need to hear her voice. The remote dropped from her hand, mouth agape. _That wasn’t Arya_. She was similar in appearance, she would concede, but her posture, the contours of her face were all wrong. What new game was this?

  
Confusion, anger boiled inside. Why hand’t Petyr told her? Why hadn’t he prepared her? Suddenly, the girl stood, ignoring the screen in front of her. The fear of making the trip to her bedroom was pushed aside; she skipped every other step on the way. She had a mind to do something _foolish._  
  
  
  



	26. flute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're bound to wait all night.  
> she's bound to run amok  
> invested enough in it anyhow,  
> to each his own...

Black heels brought her to a rusty side door, away from the security guards and photographers surrounding the front of the Lannister’s building. The heels, much like the slim, dark dress that matched them, used to belong to another red-haired woman. A woman whose apartment the girl rummaged through an hour before, searching for the most appropriate attire for a formal reception. A woman who would have appreciated the girl's bold choice in clothing; a tight and revealing garment, but still modest enough to not draw too much attention. What a shame it was that Ros wasn't alive to say the words herself. 

The door was barely noticeable, even if someone knew where to look. Luckily, Sansa had made the journey several times, led by her dead ex-boyfriend in hopes he wouldn’t be caught turning up late to some meeting or other. The hidden entrance was _their little secret_ , he'd told her; just like the bruises on her arms and abdomen, just like the look on his face directly before the life was extinguished from his eyes.

Dressed in coal around her lithe, snowy limbs, she felt as if she might have been death itself; or at least a harbinger. It seemed to follow her footsteps everywhere, never touching her directly but always in her periphery; a reminder of what she lost, and what she will lose. A pity for death then; there wasn’t much left to take.

The confidence in her stride, with a brown wig framed perfectly around her powdered face, broached no argument from the crowd as she glided through the room. Tables covered with golden cloth were scattered around, filled with an assortment of hors d’oeuvres barely touched. Waiters circled the guests, offering flutes of champagne to any empty hands. Reporters, photographers, board members, competitors and affiliates all gathered, banded in small circles, awaiting further information on the Stark girl’s mysterious reappearance.

Sansa took a glass, more for comfort than anything else, but she soon found herself replacing small, timid sips with more ample helpings as she scanned the room. It made it easier to linger, to smile back when offered a greeting, with a warm and pleasant buzzing coursing through her. It made the questions easier as well; where was the girl; the one claiming to be her sister? _Where was Petyr?_

On her third drink she stopped winding her way through the throngs, settling in a quiet corner and watching from afar. Cersei hadn’t shown her face yet, and there wasn’t a soul she recognised in the room. They must be somewhere private, doing interviews away from the masses. If she waited long enough she knew they’d make an appearance eventually. She knew how they liked to operate. She hadn’t been away long enough to forget. The familiarity was somehow comforting, even as she hid in plain sight.

Every few minutes a stranger would approach, usually in the form of a man looking for a bird to perch on his arm. She used her perfectly practiced courtesies, _Sorry sir, but I’m just waiting for someone_ , before they’d leave to find a new girl to prey on. At least with Joffrey no one dared to try anything with her.

Her balance was off with her fourth drink. She blamed her heels, nearly slipping them off in favour of bare feet. Before she could, however, the main hall doors were opened and the Lannisters began pouring into the room. The crowd radiated toward them, all eager to get their questions answered. Sansa stood still, unsure of her centre of gravity, and more than that, unsure of her goal. Why had she come? Did she want to see the false sibling with her own eyes? Did she want to confront Cersei and in doing so, sign her own death warrant? Did she want to finish, on her own terms, what death had started by taking everyone she loved?

"You've had a fair few callers, tonight. Care for just one more?" He was behind her. 

"Jealous?" She smiled, despite herself, at her tipsy retort.

“What did I tell you about doing something foolish?” Sansa’s hand loosened on her drink, nearly dropping it to the floor. He must have noticed her falter; his hand came to wrap around hers and the flute, prying it gently from her fingers and setting it on an adjacent table.

“You should have told me.” Sansa stared directly ahead as he rested a hand on her waist. No one was paying them any attention; they were preoccupied with the lions in the room.

“You should have been patient.” His fingers trailed up her side, barely feeling her. She could feel his chest pressed just slightly against her spine as he spoke into her wig. “I’ve arranged a meeting for the two of you.”

“A meeting? Why?” Her vision was foggy. How many glasses of champagne had she emptied? Her head rotated to meet the man behind her, and the room swayed in and out of focus. “She’s not my sister. She’s no one to me.”

“You’re missing the bigger picture.” His grip tightened, scanning the room with narrowed eyes for a moment before pressing a quick kiss to her parted lips. “Finding a suitable enough replacement can be just as good as the real thing.” Another kiss, and lucid eyes met her own clouded, pale blues. “Sometimes it’s preferable, even.”

Anger overtook her hazy state, if only for a second. “Not when my family is involved.” Sansa backed away, turning her head away from him. Her ankles failed her; one heel twisting inward, causing her to nearly fall backward. The man closed in on her, grasping either hip with firm hands until she was able to stand on her own again.

“Let’s go home.” Petyr began guiding her, leading her toward the hidden door she thought was a secret she alone kept. “We’ll talk about it when you’ve sobered up.”


	27. hem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a stage in your heart,  
> i can tell that you're far from yourself  
> when you barter your lust for your health.  
> and when you claim it's all a play,  
> and you just don't care,  
> i only stare…  
> i’m a director watching you rehearse.

Her head felt much too large for her body when she awoke the following morning.

Forcing her eyes open, she found herself meeting an unexpected, blinding sun. She was upstairs, then; Petyr must have led her there in place of his own office the night before. Her memory grew murky after leaving the party; shadowy images of slumping into the passenger seat, head lolling to the side as a giggle escaped her mouth. After that, she remembered nothing at all.

Limbs heavy, she shifted neutral sheets from her form to find herself still wearing her dress. Her wig rested on the nightstand, next to a full glass of water still glossy with condensation. It was the only evidence someone else had been in the room. Struggling to sit, she reached for the water and took a tentative sip, appreciating the cold slide of the liquid down her oesophagus while she tried in vain to break through her memories.

A long shower and change of clothing later, she made her way downstairs, hoping to find him in his office. Instead, she found it empty, save a note addressed to her reading: _1600 today, wear something nice._ The night before, he’d mentioned a meeting…

 

Sansa sat at the bar with an hour to kill before the imposter was meant to make an appearance. She wore a simple, olive dress; something that flowed as opposed to the constricting garments she’d grown accustomed to. The girl had chosen the brown wig again, lying tendrils resting on her shoulders.

Facing the counter and not the hall, she didn’t hear the man enter the room, not until he was close enough to touch her. “How’s your head?”

She swirled around on the stool, masking the surprise on her face, her jaw clenched in irritation. “Fine.”

He breathed a laugh, something not quite cruel, as his fingers moved to rest at her sides. The man's eyes were so dark, so unexpectedly hooded. His movements pulled her knees apart slightly as he closed in, catching her off guard.

For a moment, a single moment, he didn’t seem in control of himself. For a single second, maybe, she had a hope they might feel the same way; _powerless._

Or maybe it was all part of the game.

She turned her head away, avoiding the advance. His hands, still at her waist, tightened as she made her request. “I want a chance to talk to her.”

“And you’ll have it. I told you that.” His mouth was at her temple then, dry presses against the powder caked on for the benefit of their impending company. The height of the stool kept her at eye level despite her seated perch as he pressed himself against her.

Again, the girl veered away from him, head tilting deliberately backward. _I can’t focus when he’s close_. Her eyes met his, stoic blue against a raised eyebrow. “I want to speak with her _alone_ , Petyr.”

Instead of an agreement, he smirked, the hold at her flank was abandoned, hands trailing southward below either side of her hips, only momentarily stilling at the knee-high hem of the dress. “You know what I want?” He moved down to the ground, resting on his knees below her. Fingers traced her kneecaps in circles, before gently prying them apart. The dress moved with it, wrinkling as it bunched toward her stomach.

“You can’t-“

“But you’ve let me do _all sorts_ of things to you, little one.” His open mouth pressed against her inner thigh, punctuating each word by inching closer to her centre. Under her garment digits slithered, until he was able to reach either side of her underwear, pulling it toward him. “Uninhibited. _Unprotected_. I’ve never seen you take a pill.”

Was this his way of asking about birth control? Was he worried, behind the air of confidence? He bent backward to accommodate as the thin fabric in his grasp moved down her legs, catching on her ankles for half a second before being discarded onto the floor. Another quick breath and he was on her again, the warmth of his slow exhalation just above her apex. “I have…something else.” She couldn’t think, not with him so close to tasting her. One hand rested on his shoulder while the other threaded into his hair.

Against her skin now, so near to where she throbbed, the girl could feel him smirk. “ _Good girl_.” Words muffled by her own flesh.

_No._ This was wrong; the wrong time, _wrong altogether_. Hadn’t she told herself there would be no more of this? She fidgeted, trying to free herself from his machinations, but his hold was unyielding. “They could be here any minute-“

“ _Any minute_ ,” the man below her agreed gravely. “So we really _mustn't_ take our time.”

Whatever words of protest had formed on the tip of her tongue were obliterated when his own tongue found her. Her breath hitched, shaking legs held in place by the man’s firm hold. Her body fell back, resting against the bar as an arm reached backward to support herself, the other remaining in his hair in an anchoring grip. He worked lazily against her, an occasional hum into her pulsing heat causing her head to loll to either side.

He relinquished one of her legs, instead bringing index and middle to her entrance, slowly inserting the paired digits. They curled into her, working in tandem with his mouth as the girl’s leg lifted onto his shoulder, wrapped around him in a desperate entreaty for more, for faster. How quickly had her resolve faltered? Just how long had it taken for him to dissolve any lingering reason? She wondered if the roles were reversed, if she could have him writhing under her, begging for release.

And then she heard it; the click of a door opening down the hall. Petyr must have picked up on it as well; he retracted himself immediately, smoothing her dress back to the appropriate length and picking up her abandoned underwear in a single smooth motion. She extended her hand, waiting for the fabric so she could hastily replace it before their guests arrived, but the man stuffed the pair into his pocket instead with an amused tilt of the mouth. “You can have these back later.”

He turned away, preparing to greet the girl and her minder.


	28. spine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you lie, i cover it up.  
> when you hide, i cover it up.  
> when you cry, i cover it up.  
> when you come undone, i cover it up.

The girl looked sweet and kind and utterly tamed, and it made Sansa feel sick.

  
Arya was many things, but _sweet_ wasn't one of them. Wherever the real Arya was, she was sure her sister had survived through sheer strength, willpower and boldness. But even before that, her temperament was always wild, uncontrolled; the girl had been a _force_. A sugary disposition had been reserved for Sansa, while Arya had been her bitter opposition.

  
The fake, brown haired version kept her hands politely clasped as she entered, her eyes looking down, demure, as she inched into the bar. The bald man walked behind her, scanning the room with a measure of caution until he caught Littlefinger’s gaze.

  
The man nodded to the form still at Sansa’s side, ignoring her completely. “Make it quick, Baelish. We have a busy day.”

  
If the demand irritated Petyr he did not show it. A sociable smile lit up his features, although his eyes did not seem to cooperate. “Absolutely. That won't be a problem. Shall we step into my office?”

  
The bald man looked down to his charge, a questioning look on his face. He seemed to be more of a bodyguard than a minder, unwilling to leave her alone.

  
Petyr seemed unperturbed by his hesitance. “Why don’t we leave the girls here, to get to know one another?” He gestured to Alayne, taking a step nearer as if to display her. _Look at how harmless she is_ , he seemed to say. “My daughter hasn’t lived here long; it would be nice for her to make some friends her own age.” His fingers lingered on her back, out of their company’s view. Index clicked along her spine, resting for a moment between each vertebra. She was acutely aware of her lack of underwear then, stashed away in her father’s pocket, leaving her feeling exposed. “Would you like that, my dear?”

  
So he wanted her to befriend the girl; she could think of no other reason to orchestrate such a meeting. He would have arranged it knowing the two would have a chance to speak alone. She smiled up at him, affection plain on her face, hoping it appeared genuine to their audience. “Of course, _father_.” She leaned just slightly into his touch. If he could toy with her, she could return the favour.

  
She did not miss it, when his eyes darkened just slightly, _just for her_ , when she called him father.

  
Still, the warmth from moments before was quickly diminishing with their company's arrival. Her flushed face was cooled, the throbbing leaving her core in place of self-consciousness and fear as she was reminded of Ros. She could see her dead eyes staring up toward her, but not _at_ her. The man before them was a murderer; she was sure her friend hadn’t been his first kill. Did the shy, young girl at his side know it? For as much contempt she held for the one pretending to her her sibling, she felt a sudden sympathy toward her as well. 

Although they were similar in one thing; they each had a dubious companion. She couldn't be sure if hers was any better, in the end.

  
Reluctantly, the man was led by Petyr away from the pair, leaving them alone in the room. For a minute, silence reigned as she took a seat and offered one to her visitor. It was clear the girl would not be the one to initiate conversation; she could barely look at Alayne without wavering.

  
Sitting opposite her on the stool, she took the lead. “Would you like something to drink, Arya?” Using the name left an acidic taste in her mouth as she tried her best to play a gracious host.

  
“No thank you…Alayne, isn’t it?” She spoke barely above a whisper, but finally made eye contact. “It’s pretty.”

  
“A family name.” Hearing her speak made it more difficult; if she had been mean or cruel in appearance or attitude it would have been an easier task to play the game. But the girl seemed like a wounded animal rather than one of Cersei’s sycophants. She decided to start simple, harmless; there was no need to rush and spook her. “How are you holding up?”

  
“I’m okay.” The girl nearly stammered. “Everyone has been so nice. It’s just hard, knowing my family is gone…” It was an obviously rehearsed statement. How many times had she said it so far? Sansa wondered if her family _was_ gone, like hers was, or if she was answering the question based on how she thought Arya might respond. Or perhaps she was merely repeating what she’d been told to say by someone pulling invisible strings.

  
She thought of her mother, and the comforting words she might have spoken to a younger Sansa. And so Alayne brought her arm up to the girl’s shoulder reassuringly. “You must have been very brave. I can tell.”

  
A small smile formed, bringing out the warmth of her soft, brown eyes; it was genuine in a way Petyr’s was not. “Thank you.”

  
“I bet you’re exhausted from all the interviews, aren’t you?”

  
“Gosh, yes…” The girl sighed, but appeared to catch herself, startled. “I mean, no! I’m happy to do them.”

  
 _There is more to this story than what I’m seeing_. Curiosity was overtaking any other emotion; were they harming her? “I have an idea.” Alayne’s face brightened, ignoring the girl’s bumbling response. “Why don't we go see a movie soon? We can get ice cream and watch something sappy. What do you say?”

  
She was uneasy with the suggestion, although there seemed to be temptation under the surface. “I’m not sure if I’d be allowed…”

  
“Oh, I’m positive we could work something out. My father’s quite close to Cersei, isn’t he?” Had she had much contact with her guardian? He was still so foreign to her. That thought interested her a great deal.  
  
  
Before she could respond the two men returned, the bald one looking more than a little irritated. He looked to Arya. “We’re going. Now.”  
  
  
Sansa Stark smiled at Petyr as the two visitors left his establishment. Befriending the girl could be beneficial in more ways than one.


	29. phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i might've inhaled you,  
> i can feel you behind my eyes.  
> you've gotten into my bloodstream  
> i can feel you flowing in me.

She waited until the sound of the door shutting echoed back into the bar before she spoke. “That girl is nothing like Arya.” She couldn't be sure if she was speaking to herself or to the man who was no longer her father; he relinquished that role as soon as they were alone again.

In his left pocket she caught a glimpse of thin material; her underwear was still there. No, he was not playing the part of a parent any longer.

Blue eyes followed him as he leaned against the counter, apparently unstirred by his meeting with the bald man. He pulled his phone from the right pocket of his pants, sliding his middle finger lazily across the screen, not bothering to look back at her. “We didn’t want a nuisance.” His use of the word _we_ in place of _they_ was not lost on Sansa. “They wanted someone docile, someone weak. I gave them what they needed.” And back to _they_ again; how easily he moved from collusion to exemption within seconds. She wondered if he even noticed that he did it. 

_So it was you. And where did your guileful fingers find her?_ Was she pried from a home with those terrible hands while his tongue sang words of promise, of payment? Had she been an orphan plucked from a temporary family? Sansa was, truthfully, afraid to ask. Her mind settled for a different question. “How did you get away with using an impostor?”

He shrugged, palm still loosely cradling the mobile while he skimmed. “There’s no one alive to dispute it.” And it was true; the closest relatives to Arya were distant at best. And Sansa knew the Lannisters well enough to know they could silence a few opposing mouths if they became threats to their company. They'd done it to her family, after all.

It was unnerving, the way he still did not acknowledge her. Her cheeks were surely flushing, ire forming at his disinterest. And still, there was a lingering feeling, separate from the anger; the feeling of his mouth against her thigh and the deep presses he gifted her. She could not crush the throbbing that remained; perhaps her fury merely compounded it. It was that mix of emotion that bred an odd sort of confidence in her, standing firm even as he did not grant her his attention. “I’m alive.” _I’m alive and I know she’s not my sister._

Only with those words did the man crane upward, slowly, an eyebrow raising at her. “You’re not in a position to contest it.” He set the phone on the wooden surface behind him before stepping toward her. It almost sounded like a question, a slight lilt at the end. He was provoking her.

She met his forward step with one of her own, kicking each heeled shoe off in the process. The distance closed, she was eye-to-eye with the man, refusing to be the first to break contact. “Not yet.”

Was it pride that hid underneath the smile he gave her? There was lust there, she knew that well enough; the way green became grey in a blink, the way he would lick his bottom lip, a slow drag, in preparation. But in that moment he might have looked nearly impressed as well, as a hand reached up to her, toying with a free strand of false hair. A quick yank and the wig was gone, falling to the floor. He made quick work of the pins securing auburn, until her hair spilled around her face. But still, his eyes did not stray.

Her hands moved to her hips in an attempt to show strength, although she almost felt like a child throwing a tantrum. “I’d like my underwear back now.”

He laughed at her then, a breathy sort of chuckle. “Is that all you’d like?” His voice dropped, the fingers in her locks traveling to her jawline, barely making contact in a gentle sweep until his thumb anchored under her chin. “Just your underwear?”

Her answer was a nod against his hand. There would be no further interrogation on her part, not in that moment. She attempted to rationalise it in her head as he took a final step, his chest brushing against hers. He wasn’t the sort of man who would show his entire hand halfway through the game; he probably wouldn’t show a single card. And so she must be clever, like him, with her questions. If she could spread them out, if she could use her new friend to feed her information, she might be able to piece together more of the story than Littlefinger would suspect.

Still, try as she might, she could not rationalise the building warmth in her.

Finally, his eyes were the first to abandon hers, and down to her lips his gaze fell, watching them part. “You want them? _Take them_.” When she inhaled, it was his breath she took in; not even an inch separated them. Suddenly her underwear seemed trivial; why had she wanted it in the first place? His fingers, his mouth, seemed better suited for her anyway.

But he'd given her an order. _Take them._

The underwear was pulled from his pocket, her small hands brushing against the hardness between his legs as the material was carelessly tossed aside in pursuit of other, more pressing matters. And just before her mouth met his in a greedy embrace, just before her fingers moved to the buttons on his shirt, she gave him him a command of her own, one that forced an approving hum from her captor’s throat:

“I want you to finish what you started, Petyr.”


	30. scar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added links to some pretty flawless edits, videos and playlists inspired by tourniquet; they're on the first page of the fic. Check them out! 
> 
>  
> 
> won't you lay down your crown for me?  
> and you whisper to yourself,  
> "why must a man change his ways?"

Petyr pulled away, just barely, after a long moment, the side of his nose brushing against hers. “What I started?” He helped her with his shirt, shrugging it off as she unbuttoned the final constraints. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

  
He wasn’t wrong; she could already feel the heat, the throbbing between her legs compounding, building with his proximity. Afterward, she was certain she would chastise herself for letting it happen again. But with him near, any nagging conscience was pushed to the far corners of her mind. It was turning into a terrible habit; suppressing the unwanted feelings in place of more temporary relief. “You wouldn’t have listened anyway.” _You might have even enjoyed the complaining._ Her hands crept downward, toying with his zipper, pulling it down slowly, an attempt to reciprocate his earlier teasing. And azure eyes followed the journey her arms made; gaze moving to his lips, his neck, and then she caught sight of something unexpected, something only half remembered from a night she'd tried to forget. For a second, she only stuttered. “What…what is that?” Her words were soft, confused.

  
She could recall seeing it the night Ros died, but every time after he'd kept his shirt on or it had been too dark to notice. Had it been intentional?

Granted a proper look, she couldn't help staring. The long glossy scar bisected his chest. Just below his collarbone it started, a jagged pink thing that ended at his navel. It was an old wound, surely; it carried the lightened but thinned appearance of decades-old injuries. She had one herself, just behind her knee; a dog had scratched her when she was very young. But there was no real comparison; the wound she could not tear her eyes away from must have been terrible. The way it made an awful trek down his chest; how had he received something like that?

  
He looked taken aback, but soon enough his brows furrowed. “Your mother never told you?”

  
“Told me what?” _Why would she know?_ She paused for a moment, remembering that her mother was the one to guide her to Petyr Baelish in the first place. She’d known him, she’d trusted him. How long had the man been in her life? A very long time, judging by the disfigured flesh. Her mother’s words: _He's an old friend. You can trust him._

  
Suddenly, a smirk, and he was turning her around until her back was facing him. Fingers caught the top of her dress, and she could feel the teeth sliding apart as he unzipped her. The garment fell away, and before the fabric hit the ground his chest was against her.  
“Did your mother ever tell you tales of courageous knights, Sansa?” His fingers slithered downward; one hand caressing a hip while the other moved to a breast, cupping it gently as he spoke. He was hard against her; she could feel him, warm and firm, through his underwear. But he made no move to oscillate or grind; would that come later? She was still so new to it all, she was still so naive.

  
_What does that have to do with anything?_ “Sometimes,” she managed to say. The world seemed to fade away when he found her nub; an unnoticed haze in the background; all that remained was him. It was a light touch, one surely intended to insight rather than please. Her hand clasped his wrist, an attempt to coax him to add pressure, but he just smiled into her neck.

  
“How about poor, young children with pure hearts who defeat evil monsters?” Index pressed, moving in small circles as she bit into her lower lip.

  
“Yes.” She remembered those stories; to her siblings they were always their favourite sort of tales. Especially Bran, since he was small as well. They would all gather around, cross-legged on the living room floor, while their mother would make up elaborate yarns, weaving all of the children into the stories to make it more exciting. But there was no time to think about that; her nerves were tingling in anticipation; shaking legs parted further as she was guided to her toes.

  
“And duels, Sansa? Did she ever tell you a story about a boy in love, who won a fair maiden’s hand by fighting a muscled brute?” His tempo was picking up, and she found herself unable to answer him. “Did the noble ones always win? Is that what she made you believe about the world?”

  
She could only nod in response, a quick shake in agreement before her eyes were forced shut. _God_ , she was so close. Her head fell back, onto the man’s shoulders as he spoke. Her hand helped guide his movements. And he let her then, until her body tensed in that brief, blinding sensation she’d been searching for.

  
Her breathing slowed as his hand left her. She felt a sigh against her neck before a quick, dry press was left there. And as he moved backward she felt alone again, reality quickly flooding in. It was happening faster and faster each time; the escape she sought never lasted as long as she hoped it would. And he still hadn’t answered her question about the scar.

  
He zipped his pants up; she could feel it before she turned around to face him. There was no amusement there; the familiar tilt of his mouth was gone, vanished with her own ecstasy quickly fading. He reached for his shirt, pulling it back over his shoulders. And when he spoke, she was sure it was steeped in bitterness. “Your mother was a liar.”

  
He did not return for three days.


	31. powder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m in the middle of a mess that i don’t understand  
> why does it feel like the world’s stealing every single thing that i have?  
> i only got the air in my chest and even that won’t last

On the third day of his absence, she decided to go shopping. Armed with a pocketful of saved wages and her secret hair tucked underneath fake brown locks, the girl walked alone into the shopping centre.

  
She bought two outfits. Two outfits for two very different purposes.

  
The first was purchased at her old favourite clothing store, a brightly lit boutique brimming with teenagers. The fabrics were pinks and pastels, neons and sequins. She meandered around, half in a daze, searching for just the right thing. In the end, the dress she held in her hands was light blue and flowery; her old self would have loved it. And when she tried it on, she found herself simply staring at the clear reflection in a fitting room mirror for several long moments in quiet rumination.

  
Her lips curled, she willed her eyes to smile, she posed with her hands on her hips. The girl staring back at her became false; a younger, more happy model. She could be that person again, if she needed to be, she resolved. And so she bought the dress.

  
The second purchase was made at a smaller shop, one that carried more elegant, sleek attire. It was a black skirt she chose, along with a modest white blouse and dark jacket. Ros had dozens of heels she could wear to go with the newly acquired garments. It was a thought that caused her chest to tighten.

 

When the club opened for the evening, she wore the skirt. Dressed for business and not for pleasure, the girls didn’t seem to know what to make of her. Ros had always toed the line between hostess and employee with her choice of clothing; slinky, red dresses that left so little to the imagination. She would flirt, she would taunt and tease the patrons, she would play her part well.

  
But Alayne wasn’t Ros, and Sansa wanted to make that clear.

  
If any of the girls took issue with her role as de facto club manager, they did not say it aloud. The evening progressed as any other work shift would, sans the cheerful redhead who used to run the show. The night was going well; the establishment did not appear to be any worse for the wear after the temporary closure. The men flocked in, they ordered their drinks, they ignored the calls from their wives and girlfriends in favour of immediate gratification.

  
It all seemed so normal, _much too normal_ , to her now as she surveyed the clientele, watching from her perch at the corner of the bar. A voice in the back of her mind urged her to run away, to leave the city forever, to forget about the man with terrible green eyes and a mocking smile. She was a child still, after all, even if her stare was hardened with years of trauma. She was only playing dress-up; wearing an adult’s clothes and watching adult activities. Eventually, they would all figure it out, and she would be guided back to the playground. 

  
And when the bartender signalled to Sansa with a nod, her head directed toward the bathroom, she truly began to worry about her capabilities.

 

The bartender's tip happened to be a good one. A blonde woman, one of Littlefinger's employees, was bent over the sink. Her spine curved delicately as the tight dress pulled and stretched to accommodate. An index was pressed against her nose as she snorted the fine, white line of powder. A credit card, lightly coated with that lingering substance, settled near her face.

  
It wasn’t until the door shut behind Sansa that the woman jumped up, startled at the sound of a new presence. Most of the evidence was gone, but the blonde appeared afraid enough regardless. “It’s not…what it looks like, Alayne.”

  
Sansa took a breath, watching her with what she hoped was a grave stare. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The policy of the club was clear; Littlefinger didn’t tolerate drug use in his establishment. Not for the employees, anyway.

  
For a moment, it seemed as if she was going to comply, but the defeated look was soon replaced with ire. “You can’t fire me, little girl. Where’s Littlefinger?”

  
Alayne pulled out her phone, pressing the CALL button to the only listed contact. She handed the mobile to the woman. “Go ahead. Explain yourself.”

  
The blonde gingerly took the phone, bringing it up to her ear. There was an argument, then; the woman hastily attempting to explain herself to the man on the other end of the line. She stuttered, almost sounding frightened, between pauses to hear what he was saying in response.

  
Without warning, the phone was thrown against the tile floor, and the woman did not waste the element of surprise. Alayne was pressed harshly against the cold wall, twitching fingers curling around her pale neck while her other found her sternum, keeping her still.

  
“You think you can get me fired? _Me?_ I don’t think so.” Her grip tightened, constricting her ability to yell, to breathe. “You don’t get to call the shots just because you’re fucking him.”

  
_Him;_ the words sparked a thought: _What would Petyr do in the same situation?_ He would be stern and unafraid; he would be smart about it.

  
Calm eyes regarded the older woman, even as breathing became difficult. Her hand flew up to grip her wrist, prying foreign fingers from around her neck. _“Let go.”_ Her voice was firm, commanding; somehow she did not seem like herself. She was someone braver, someone stronger, someone who might survive.

  
And the woman obeyed, backing away in concession. She seemed confused, looking down to her hand as if it was not her own. Was it the cocaine that caused her to lash out? Sansa would never find out; the blonde woman scurried away, out of the bathroom before she could take another breath.

 

She looked down over to the phone on the floor, the screen still alight, before sliding to the ground, finally letting the fear take hold as the adrenaline left her. 


	32. palm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, to drown in your mind  
> i would, i know i would  
> to suffocate in your smoke  
> i'd choke on you if i could  
> maybe i will

The bartender was the only one to raise an eyebrow at her reentry. Surely the other woman had caused some sort of commotion, thundering through the bar before she made her exit, but the girls were good at _distracting_ ; their entire careers focused on it. And so the looks she received were subtle ones; a hasty, questioning glance as one of the women arched her back atop the man she straddled, or a brief smirk in passing when a brunette guided a man into one of the private rooms. They would not ask her personally, but she was positive they’d all know the story by morning.

Sansa responded by doing nothing at all. She settled back into her new routine, keeping an eye on the club and making sure the evening was running as smoothly as possible. The man who had found his hands quite empty on the blonde’s hasty exit was now occupied with two of the newer hires. They were eager to show their talents, desperate to prove their worth in an establishment as renowned as Littlefinger’s, and the man was not at all disappointed, judging by the frequent digging into his wallet.

And she did not let the fear show when she noticed the familiar boy perched on a barstool, nursing a beer. Much like the previous meeting, he did not seem interested in the women at all. But he did seem interested in _her_. A year ago she might not have picked up on the side glances, the way his body angled toward her even as she made her way back and forth through the room.

She was much better at paying attention now.

What did the boy want? Was he sent to the club on his father’s orders, threatening, prepared to show her the same end as Ros? Or was he merely there as a reminder, or more likely still, did he carry a message for Littlefinger? Whatever his purpose was, he seemed content to pass the time, wearing out his welcome as he shooed each approaching girl away.

Finally, as if to show some sort of dominance, he turned, staring directly at her. The bartender watched on, eyes narrowed, as he leaned slightly back, a challenging smile on his face.

It was a challenge she was, oddly, not afraid to meet. Her own stare was a cold one, clouded by the images of what his father had done to her friend, and still foggy from the scuffle in the bathroom. She was sick of submitting, she was done relinquishing control of her own life. If the boy wanted to play, he had chosen a poor time to start the game.

She was readying herself for the confrontation, her muscles tensing in preparation to stride over to the boy, when he spoke. “He won’t do anything... _imprudent_. The brat won't want to upset his father.” How focused had she been that she hadn’t heard him come to stand next to her?

“How do you know?” Still, her eyes did not leave their target.

“I just do.” A palm on her back, a guiding press toward the hallway, was what caused her to break the connection. “Come on; he’ll be gone when you get back.”

 

He waited until they were far enough from his curious employees, down the empty hall and into his office, before he spoke. “What happened?” He did not seem concerned, if his tone was any indication. It sounded formal, businesslike, as he shut the door behind them with a soft click.

“I handled it.” Looking at him now, it was as if their last encounter never happened; this man did not sound bitter or angry then. In the back of her mind, however, she remembered his words. She would not forget.

“I noticed.” She felt the tips of his fingers before she registered that he’d even moved his arm, grazing the tender part of her neck. Would there be a bruise in the morning, a temporary reminder of her small victory? She would have to find a scarf, the girl decided, as her eyes veered away from the man for a moment. It did not stop him from speaking again. “She hurt you.”

“I’m alright.” Was the reassurance for the man in front of her or for her own piece of mind? Sansa found herself unable to decide, and perhaps that was the cause of her hand reaching for his, bringing it from her collar to her waist. His other hand followed suit unprompted, pulling her an inch closer. It wasn’t until she looked back at him that she spoke again. “I’m going to ask her to see a movie this weekend.” _Arya. You must  learn to say it_. Uttering that name, that false name, still seemed to turn her stomach.

“And you think Cersei will allow her to sit in the dark, unsupervised, for two hours?” His fingertips tapped her hips in a lazy rhythm, a smirk played on his lips.

“Well, I can hardly ask her here, to braid each other’s hair above a strip club.” He puffed a breath of air through his nostrils, so near enough to a laugh that Sansa could not hide a smile. “Put in a good word for me?” Innocently asked, she made sure her blue eyes widened, just a little, at the request. And those same eyes could see her partner’s darken, weaken, just for her.

A bargain, extracted through guile and consummated with a few frenzied meetings of their mouths before he broke away. Composed in the blink of an eye, he was Littlefinger again, and moving to his desk without another glance, suggesting she ought to resume her work.

 

Petyr did not join her in the bar; she made that trip alone. There was no hair out of place, and her makeup was near enough to before, but somehow she suspected the girl’s knew what had transpired. And just had Petyr said, there was no sign of the boy when she returned.


	33. cinema

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> girl, take a seat  
> rest your weary bones  
> your secret's safe  
> in my hands

She smoothed the floral pattern of the blue dress down as she slid into the backseat of the spotless, black car. The leather seats were warm, heated to combat the chill outside of the vehicle, and she was quietly thankful for it. Her garment was thin beneath her coat, light and colourful and not at all how she dressed at the club; she was playing a different part. Fake, dark hair hung long around her face, curled and sprayed in a girlish fashion to match the makeup she’d painted on.

A girl hopped into the other side, trying hard to hide her happiness, her excitement. It was obvious enough to Alayne how rarely she had a chance to have fun, or even spend time with someone who did not possess the surname of Lannister. There was a colour on her cheeks, a brightness that likely remained hidden in front of her wardens.

“Which movie did you choose?” Arya had asked her to make the choice over the phone, when Alayne first suggested they to go to the theatre together. _A day out,_ she'd said.

  
In the end, she’d chosen a new romance flick, with actors she’d remembered from when she used to have friends. “You’ll have to wait and see.” The older girl knew she should smile as well, and so she did, despite the ache beneath her ribs, the vague pain that dug into her each time she saw the driver through the car’s mirror, or in her periphery.

Littlefinger had arranged the playdate, _of course he had_ , but Cersei has insisted on an escort, and Alayne knew just the person who would be accompanying them. And so there was no surprise when the bald man pressed his foot on the gas pedal, sending them in the direction of the cinema. She looked at him then, and all she could see was Ros.

Cersei had rented out the entire theatre; that much was clear as soon as they were dropped off, the man driving away and around the building to park the car. Inside, there were no queues; not a single person was waiting to buy popcorn. They did not trip over customers already sitting in their seats; the building was entirely empty of patrons. It didn’t seem to bother not-Arya; she looked relieved.

The girls took their coats off while the theatre lights were still on, displaying the sticky remnants of spilled, sugary drinks and bits of candy. Alayne took her seat first, and that was the moment a discolouration caught her eye. Perhaps she noticed it because she was attuned to looking for the signs; she carried them once as well. It was a bruise on her forearm, one shaped like a grip. Without giving herself a chance to think, Alayne took the other girl’s hand, pulling the injury nearer to her face.

“What’s this?” Looking up to the young girl, the only emotion she saw reflecting back at her was terror.

Arya yanked her arm back, slipping it once again through the sleeve of her coat and taking her own seat. “N-nothing.”

But she persisted; _she must_. “Arya.” She whispered the words hastily, urgency in her voice. There was no one else with them, but she was certain that would soon be remedied. She must be quick. “Are they hurting you? Is Cersei-“

“No.” She was adamant enough about that, even in her fear, and Alayne believed her. Cersei wasn’t the type, anyway. It was her son that employed physical violence; his mother used her words to cause pain. “Not her. Not the Lannisters.”

“Who, then?” She wanted to help her, she wanted to hurt whoever was inflicting the purpling marks; she wanted them to pay. She didn’t even know the girl, this false child that was not her sister; she was nothing to her. But Alayne knew what it was like, being trapped, being afraid and alone.

“I can’t-“ Arya turned, and she knew who it was. She realised who did the hurting.

The bald man had entered, standing near the door, lurking behind where the two new friends had chosen to sit. He was well out of earshot, and while the younger girl’s face became a mask again, his presence kept Alayne on edge.

The lights dimmed, and the movie started. She stared, but did not watch it.

 

The rest of the day was easier; no further mention of the bruise, no talk of anything very serious. They had ice cream after the film, huddling close outside of the shop, both giggling at their decision to eat a frozen treat on the cold enough street. The bald man had gone to pick up the car, leaving them alone again for a few moments.

“We should do this again. It was fun.” Arya said through chattering teeth, licking the vanilla spilling around the side of the cone.

“Of course!” _We’ll be like sisters, you and I_ , she did not say. For a moment, her face grew stoic. “You’ll promise me something though, first.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed, waiting for her to finish.

She lowered her voice, pressing a bit closer. “Will you come to me, if you need help? I can, you know. _Help._ If you need it.” _When you need it._

Arya nodded, slowly, only breaking eye contact to stare at the car pulling up to them.

 

“Should we drop you off at home?” Arya asked, disappointment reigning in her voice. She was sad to see her new friend go, and the thought pleased Alayne. Petyr would be glad to hear it. And more than that, despite herself, the girl was growing on her.

“If you don’t mind.” She did not speak to the bald man, but he took the request anyway. It wasn’t until she noticed he took a right turn instead of a left, leading them in the wrong direction entirely, that panic took over. Her hands curled to fists, jaw tensing, as she considered her options. She could jump out of the car; they were still in the city, she could run, she could call Petyr.

And then it hit her; they were taking her _home_. She was Littlefinger’s daughter. They were taking her to _his_ home.


	34. house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this game of cruelty  
> hardly becomes me  
> this game of cruelty  
> is easily the most boring part of the week.
> 
> why can't you just say to me  
> i mean something to you?

The house was much larger than she thought it would be, standing ominously on the outskirts of the town. It threatened, it teased her in the distance. She wasn't surprised by the modern, white appearance. It looked harsh and impersonal, and she knew immediately that it was his.

She didn’t have a key, and with that thought the fear first surfaced. What would she do, then, if they waited for her to enter the home before leaving? Her exterior did not give away a frantic heartbeat, or the way her body begged to shake.

And to her horror, they _did_ wait; the car stayed still along the side of the road as she walked up to the dark, wooden door. Her legs brought her to the step and in front of the home, and she did the only thing she could do, _she knocked_.

It was directly after knuckles rapped the surface that she considered her folly; they would wonder why she was knocking. Who would do that at their own home? She turned back to the car, putting her arms up in a shrug, as if to say: _Oops! Silly me; I’ve forgotten my keys_. Looking back to the building, the door remained unopened, and so she knocked again.

 _Please, please be home_. It was evening, well beyond the hours of the firm. He should be home; _please be home._

She rotated away from the house again at a sound; the bald man had opened the driver-side door, stepping out onto the pavement. He was going to come toward her, he was going to figure it out; who she was, what she was doing. He was going to shoot her in the head and no one would be there to cradle her in those last seconds. At least Ros had that before she died. She would be alone.

Should she run? Her legs tensed in preparation, ready to bolt.

A gentle hand, on her shoulder, broke that silent panic. Her head moved to trace the touch, and he was there; she hadn’t heard him walk through the doorway, too concerned with the bald man fast approaching. Petyr was clad in the remnants of his work clothes; a plain cotton shirt tucked into his black slacks. He was smiling at the form heading toward the house.

“Thanks for getting her home safely, Roose.” Petyr’s voice carried across the winding walkway, lacking the faked sincerity he usually applied so well. Was it being caught off-guard, in his own home, that caused his well-learned show to falter?

The man nodded back in response, and Sansa looked away before she heard the car door open and close again. Littlefinger shifted in the doorway to let her through, and she slipped in, careful to make it look typical and effortless, in case the bald man was still watching, and she was almost certain he was.

Her _father_ paused, waving the car off before closing the door. Whatever facade had remained was quickly wiped away; a scowl, cruel and rare, was directed at the girl. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

“I-“ She couldn’t help but stammer, and what had she expected? That he’d let her in, make her a cup of tea…ask her to stay? _No, of course not._ She knew better. Her voice evened out as she tried to explain. “I didn’t mean to. They said they were taking me home. I didn’t realise-“

“You didn’t _realise_.” His mouth parroted the words back, low and even, mocking her. “You have quite a knack for not realising, Sansa.” He took a step toward her, and she was nearly against the wall in her retreat. His fingers reached up, index and thumb pressed against her chin to keep her attention. “And what if I hadn’t been home? What then?”

She could feel it; the anger bubbling under muscle and tissue, ready to overtake her. It was new and cold _and a little exciting_ , if she was being honest with herself. The form the ire took was calm, much like the argument in the bathroom. Defiant blue took hold of green and did not let go.

“Don’t speak to me like that.” Her hand darted out to clasp his forearm, keeping his fingers on her chin. “This wouldn’t have happened if I’d have known where you lived. If I had a key.” One foot advanced, and arms bent to accommodate the closeness. She did not stall, and she did not look away.

And something happened then that she had not fully anticipated; _he was quiet_. Lips slightly parted, he swiped the lower with his tongue. Petyr gave her a slow nod, unsmiling, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Next time, don’t come here. Tell them you’re meeting your father in the city. Make an excuse."

Feeling bold, she countered. “Next time, I’ll warn you so you’ll have the door ready for me.”

The man didn’t respond, but she thought there might have been a smirk there, hidden underneath the irritation. Maybe she was just imagining it. Eyes watched him back away, unhanding her as he slipped his jacket off of a hook on the wall and pulled it on. “Let’s go.”

Brows furrowed. “Where?”

He breathed out a heavy puff; a half impatient laugh. “I’m taking you back to the club, where you belong.” He ushered her out, a gentle but firm press against the space between her shoulder blades, before she had a chance to argue further. But she _had_ argued, and she hadn’t lost, and she wouldn't forget.

Sansa wasn’t sure if she was speaking to herself then, or to him. “That’s not where I belong.” And did he look a little sad, a little sorry for his words?

Still, she acquiesced, although not before catching sight of the picture frame on the wall of the hallway. The photo was of a little boy and his mother, and they looked terribly familiar.


	35. car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how you gonna wave hello or goodbye when your hands are tied?  
> how you gonna wave when your hands are tied to the end of the threads inside?

“They’re hurting her.” Her hands fell onto her lap as they drove through the bustling city centre. She watched her fingers skim the flowery pattern on the dress, and she did not feel young. There were no wrinkles lining her face to give away the years of feigned laughter, and no graying hair to signify the losses that could not possibly have happened to someone decades from middle age. But underneath, under the integument, her ribs were a husk, a chaff winnowed of the life inside. The girl in her seemed distant, far away.

And was she a girl still, or even a young lady? Sansa couldn’t remember what defined each, what invisible line separated each stage, or if there was a line at all. The man next to her might call her a woman, and maybe that was her classification now; surely no girl, no young lady participates in such untoward activities, especially with one so far from being called a _boy._

Petyr didn’t look at her; one of his own hands was loosely wrapped around the leather steering wheel while the other rested below the driver-side window. “Did she tell you that?” His tone reeked of quiet skepticism, and that burning ire bloomed once again in the girl’s chest. Maybe she wasn’t hollow inside, after all. He could make her feel, she must force herself to admit it. And not only anger or a heady rush, but sometimes an odd sort of comfort, although that was not at the forefront of her mind at that moment. 

“She didn’t have to. I saw the bruises.” _I know what they look like. I know how they feel._ She did not need to tell him that, and indigence lined the edges of her mouth in response. Blue flitted over to him and her neck rotated to follow, gauging his reaction, and finding none.

His eyebrow raised after a few seconds, but he remained staring ahead. “They’ve no need to hurt her, Sansa. She’s docile enough; that’s why I chose her.”

 _Why you chose her_ ; she would not allow herself to forget that it was his hand that did the steering, his order that placed a girl within the grasp of monsters. She took a breath, keeping her body still. “Her arm, Petyr. It was in the shape of a hand. That doesn't happen by accident.”

He turned the wheel, driving them down a familiar street. “Cersei wouldn’t risk it. They need her, unblemished.” She could hear the impatience in his voice, under the even timbre. She wondered if anyone else picked up on the intricacies of his speech, the subtle variations that indicated irritation or finality. She wondered if anyone alive was close enough to him to be able to tell in the first place. 

Besides the girl in the wig at his side, and did he know it? Did he know she was learning him, just as he was learning her?

Her own impatience rang out now, fingers tensing, digging into the soft flesh of her palms. “It wasn’t Cersei. It was Roose. She’s terrified of him, Petyr, and he’s always around, always watching. He has no qualms about murder, we know that much.” _Just ask Ros_. It hurt her to say those words, and she hoped it hurt him as well. Maybe it would press him into action.

The man was silent for a few minutes, allowing the dull hum of the car to serenade her instead. Fingertips tapped against the door handle at his side, and she watched his lips purse as he thought. They reached the club before he spoke again, pulling to a stop in front of the entrance.

“The son. It’s not Roose. I doubt Roose even knows.” He was only half-speaking to her, musing aloud, his voice soft. “He wouldn’t gamble with the Lannisters’ property, he’s smarter than that. _But the son_ …” He trailed off, and she could almost see his thoughts branching out in all directions.

Attempting to bring his attention back to her, she nearly pleaded to him. “We have to do something.” _Before it’s too late._

 _“Something?_ ” He smirked, finally facing her. “Like what?”

“Like help her.” Her palms extended, displaying her exasperation.

The amused tilt didn’t reach his eyes as he stared at her, sizing her up. “Okay, _okay,_ ” he conceded with a few slow nods. “Let me know what _something_ you decide we should do, and I’ll consider it.”

She paused, and she was sure the incredulity was writ plain on her features. “You’re not going to help me think of a plan?”

The man shrugged, moving to open the car door. _Of course he's not going to help_ ; what would he gain from helping a poor girl? He’s already taken in one, why would he have need of another? It was up to her, then, to make sure her new friend didn’t end up like her brother or parents. There was some solace found in his use of the word _we_ ; he was receptive to it, at least.

He left the engine running as he escorted her to the entrance of his club. Her eyes slid from the vehicle and back to him. “You’re not staying?”

“I have some business to take care of while I’m in town.” He nodded to the bouncer as he started back toward his car. “I’ll stop by later.”

But the nagging question, the one that had suddenly become a priority now that the subject of Arya was set aside. She had to know. “Petyr?”

He turned back to her, expectantly.

“Who was the woman in that picture? The one in your hallway. She had red hair.”

He paused, clearly surprised at the question. The look was quickly replaced with an affectless expression, and just before he walked away Littlefinger gave her a reply. “No one.”


	36. cuffs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spin me in circles  
> give me freedom instead  
> why don't you save me?  
> why don't you save me from myself?  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5xCyPN4q5Q

Her heels were a dull clack-clack, echoing through the dimly lit venue. Some of the girls gave her a nod or a smile, while others were simply too engrossed in their own activities to notice her. The girlish floral was gone; this version of herself donned a modest black dress with her faux hair hanging loose beyond her shoulders. Her face was severe, watchful.

If her warden could toe that line, she reasoned, if he could pass effortlessly from one persona to the next with the snap of fingers, why couldn't she? A friendly hand in the afternoon replaced with a firm one in the evening; the duality was tempting. She could be an actress, she could forget herself entirely for long hours, pretending to be happy, or harsh; whatever the script dictated.

But when the act was over, when she was swept from the raked, chaotic stage and the spotlights cut off with a dull flick, what was she then? And when she was with Petyr, who was she? Was she Alayne or Sansa, both or neither? The girl had a difficult time separating the two when he was concerned.

 

Hard blue scanned the room, on alert for sign of any trouble. Without Ros, her fear of losing control of the establishment was compounded. An angry client, a fight over money or a girl, a drunken outburst; the possibilities were endless and very real. Perhaps that hyperawareness was what caused her to initially miss the dark-haired boy sitting on the barstool.

When she finally did see him, arms tensed as she sucked in a breath, willing herself to keep calm. It was too soon, to early for him to be so close; she’d had no time to form a plan. He wasn’t facing her; instead, he watched his half-finished beer. As usual, he did not seem interested in the women on either side of him, content to stare into the murky liquid in the mug.

“He’s been here every night this week. He never engages with anyone…it’s like he’s waiting for something.” A voice, male and not familiar, noted behind her.

She turned, brows furrowing in confusion. A thin, blonde man, she estimated in his late twenties, stood behind her. “How do you know?”

He gave her a smirk, and she was reminded of her employer’s own coy smile. “It’s my business to know, _Alayne_.” The way he said her false name unsettled her; gooseflesh crept up her bare arms. He extended a hand, the cuff of his impeccable, white shirt rested snugly around his wrist. “Olyvar.”

She smiled, and hoped it didn’t appear as insincere as it felt, taking his hand in a brief shake. “I’m sorry…do I know you?”

The blonde chuckled, straightening the cuffs. “No, no. I’m sure Littlefinger’s never mentioned me. I operate some of his other…premises.”

How silly of her, to think this was the only one of its kind. Still, she tried not to miss a beat. “How many does he have?”

“Several.” His tone, while amused, begged for no further questions on that matter. He nodded to the boy on the stool and her eyes followed. “What are you going to do about him?”

She didn’t say anything. Jaw tensed as her focus shifted from the bar back to the man at her side. If he _did_ work for Petyr, why didn't she know anything about him? _There’s a great deal you don’t know about Petyr,_ the tiny voice in the back of her mind reminded her. _The other clubs, the photo on the wall…_

The man gave her a long look, his face softening with a kind smile. “I see. I get it. You have no reason to trust me. But we’ll get there.” He pulled out his phone, idly skimming through what looked like dozens of new messages. “He’ll be here in an hour, by the way. And I’ll see you in the morning.”

“What? The morning?” But the man was already walking away, clearly pleased with his little show.

 

Ramsay, that was the name Petyr had given him, left the bar without so much as a glance in Sansa’s direction. She ought to have been comforted by it, but it only served to grate her more. Thoughts flitted in and out, attempting to find a plan that might convince Petyr to help her. If he had something to gain, if she could offer him something, she was sure he’d be more willing to help.

 

Two hours later he arrived.

Sansa was sitting at his desk, skimming through inventory spreadsheets, when the door opened and the man slipped through. His hair was disheveled, a moss green tie loose against his wrinkled shirt. A palm guided the door behind him shut, and he leaned against it just after. He wore a lazy smile as his eyes found her.

She raised a curious eyebrow at him. “Late night? Looks like you got a lot accomplished.”

He nodded, the smile wiped from his face in place of a mock far-too-serious expression, fumbling with his tie. _Was he drunk?_

The girl stood, circling the table and taking a few steps toward him. Her heels were off, forgotten under his desk; the wooden floor was cool to her soles. “I met Olyvar tonight.”

“I heard.” He was still working at his tie, intent on his machinations.

She closed the distance, her hands cupping his gently, taking over the task. His arms dropped, heavy at his sides as his face slowly rose to meet her.

Small, deft fingers loosened the material at his chest as her eyes found mossy grey. “How many clubs do you own?”

He leaned in, smirking, as if he might be telling her a secret. “ _Several_.” It was Olyvar’s answer repeated back to her. Warm breath on her cheek, and she couldn’t stop the shiver. His hands came to rest on either hip, not pushing or pulling, just settling there.

She lifted the tie over his head and dropped it to the floor, separating them for a few seconds. “How many drinks did you have tonight?” She could smell the whiskey; it left a peaty scent in the air between them.

“ _Several_.” He looked as if he’d just told a funny joke, and had she ever witnessed him so off-guard?

This might be her chance; perhaps he’ll answer her question with the haze of alcohol clouding his judgment. She pulled back, face-to-face with him. “Who is the woman in the picture, Petyr?”

In response he shook his head, almost imperceptibly. His tongue was a wet drag on his upper lip. “I think,” he said as he tugged her near to him, her chest flush against his, “you’re done asking questions.”


	37. zipper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm having trouble in believing,  
> and i just started seeing,  
> light at the beginning of the tunnel, but he tells me that i'm dreaming,  
> when he talks i hear his ghosts, every word they say to me,  
> i just pray the wires aren't coming (here to strangle me)

After a pause he turned her around, the grip on her waist abandoned to focus on the zipper just below the back of her neck. Metal teeth pried apart, and she could feel the cold click of each rung’s separation along her spine.

Their conversation hadn’t produced results, and despite the man’s insistence, the events of the day still nettled her. Staring at the desk to her front, she tried again. “Petyr, why-“

His hand came up immediately, finding her mouth and muffling the end of her question. “ _What did I say?_ ” His palm was smooth against her lips, not firm enough to hurt her. The zipper was forgotten, her dress half clinging to her shoulders, as his other arm slithered around her abdomen, the loosened dress fisted into his grip. “I can find something that’ll keep you quiet, if you don't feel like cooperating.” His teeth gently tugged on the lobe of her ear before he spoke again. “The tie, perhaps?”

She wasn’t sure, in his state of inebriation, if he was joking or not. If he continued the trek his lips were making toward her jaw she was sure she wouldn’t care anyway. Sansa twisted her neck toward his face, her lips freed from his hold. And instead of speaking, she met his own mouth in an embrace. He opened for her, his tongue pressing forward, enticing hers to join.

One of his hands focused on hitching the dark garment up, above her waist, while the other slid the fabric from her shoulders. The dress bunched at her middle, and when his fingers pressed between her legs she no longer cared about modesty, either. He was warm against her, heated from the alcohol and lust. She was drowning in it; intoxicated without taking a sip of liquor.

He broke their connection, instead moving to leave open kisses to her neck while he cupped a breast. Digits began a slow pace, and she couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped her. He hummed in approval, beginning a lazy grind against her back in time with his efforts. The man was deft, even in his state, keeping up with the undulations as she came closer and closer to her goal. Before she could reach it, however, his hand left her, murmuring the word “ _bed_ ” into her ear.

Against the wall he stopped her, fingers finding her again, featherlight touches teasing the sensitive parts of her. She gasped when he gave a firm press, reverberating from her core outward. She forced a moan back, the humming radiating from her chest. And then his touch was barely there again, as he made a _tsk_ ing sound with his tongue. "No, Sansa. _I want to hear you._ " He was so close; his lips brushed against hers when he spoke. She had no time to protest; they were moving again.

His shirt was off by the time they made it onto the sheets, the dark belt open and slacks barely hanging off his hips. Her dress was tossed aside as she wrapped a leg around him, a silent plea for him to finish what he’d started. And it seemed he planned to; index and middle sunk into her as his palm worked where she throbbed. Petyr watched her from above, a lazy, pleased smile on his face, barely visible in the dimly lit room. She arched, her body demanding more as sweat beaded at auburn-covered temples.

But just as she was on the brink, her eyes closing in preparation as her muscles clenched, the man pulled away. Blue eyes snapped open, confused, to meet foggy green.

The man smiled down, toying with her. “Oh no, _not yet._ I’m not finished with you.”

He grabbed either side of her waist, keeping her in place as he made his journey down her neck, her collar, before taking a breast into his mouth. His tongue flicked, and her hips were still under him, despite her attempts to rise up to meet him. Once he was satisfied, he continued south, leaving damp traces on her pale skin as he went. The man veered just below her navel, moving to an inner thigh instead of where she desperately wanted him to be. She could feel the tilted mouth against her leg.

She’d been so close, so ready, that perhaps it was the adrenaline that caused the urgent actions that followed. Sansa tugged him upward and pushed against his chest, flipping him onto his back before he had a chance to react.

“No.” She straddled him, thighs pressed firmly into either side of his body as she slid his pants down, just enough to gain access to him. Her small hand wrapped around his length, and the look on his face, unmasked and wanting, was more satisfying than she cared to admit. There was no time left for games, and it was a groan of relief she expelled as she sunk onto him, letting herself be filled completely. Burying her face for a moment into the crook of his neck, she stilled, enjoying the feel of him. Every nerve on her body was alight, all coming together to disprove any thoughts of _wrongness_ still lingering in the back of her mind.

He brought his hands toward her, to her waist, attempting to regain some semblance of sway over her.

 _“No._ ” She said again, shaking her head while releasing his grip from her sides. The girl brought his hands above his head, pinning him. “It’s my turn.” For a few long moments she was content to kiss him; open and hungry, an aimless push and pull. He seemed complacent as well, until his pelvis began to thrust upward, seeking more.

Finally atop him, and in control, the journey suddenly seemed more important than the finish. And so she set a slow grind, enjoying the feel of his tensed fingers under hers, betraying the cool exterior he tried to maintain. As she quickened, as her knees began to ache and the throbbing grew unbearable, her hold nearly faltered on the man, fingers loosening their press on his.

But for once, she did not break first. A quiet rasp into her temple as she bucked above him: “ _Sansa_. Let me touch you.”

It was surprise that forced her arms down, wrapping around the man as he found his freedom. Fingers threaded into wild hair with an urgency she’d never known from him. And that building need was a shared feeling, something greater than either of them alone. She did not care to reserve her moans any longer, and was he saying her name? And maybe she said his when she broke, mouth open as her head tilted back. A moment later, a few hasty presses and he groaned as well, pulling her down into a long, sated kiss.

They remained that way, with his hands still knotted in her hair, keeping her close to him. After a while, he guided her to her side without his mouth breaking contact, legs intertwining in an easy sort of tangle. And when their lips tired and their bodies cooled, he pulled away enough to stare, eyes kind from the drink, giving her a look that might have resembled affection.

Her fingers swept his lean arm, and she broke the silence with a whisper. “You can’t avoid answering my questions forever.” As soon as she said the words she regretted them; the man turned onto his back, and the chuckle that emitted from his mouth was cruel. That effortless shift she was so keen on emulating happened in no more than a second.

“Hm. The picture…” The man mused, nodding, watching the ceiling. She could see the muscles tense on his arm, fingers flexing. 

“Yeah. Who’s the woman?” She did not want to call him Petyr in that moment; he wasn’t.

He kept the smirk on his face, but his eyes were unfocused upward. A breathy laugh, and then. “My wife.”


	38. shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble because I'm nearly at 1000 kudos (thanks everyone for reading!):  
> http://myrandar.tumblr.com/post/119757071728/petyr-and-sansa-tourniquet-prompt-nearly-at-1000
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter, just because I thought that was a better place to end it for the moment. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, just putting a question out here, as I've been writing this fic for well over a year now:  
> I'm at a crossroads with this fic at the moment. At this point, I can wrap the story up in about 5-10 chapters, ending with the stuff I've started with Ramsay. This will give me more time to work on other planned and drabbled fics. The other option is to stick with this story and move onto a bigger plotline after the 5-10 chapters (and I DO have a planned plot, so I won't be going in blind). That in mind, I won't really have time to work on other fic for a while, beyond what I have going. What do you guys think? 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> my heart was ugly  
> but her eyes were lovely

_His wife._

Her mind was blank. Try as she might, she found herself unable to formulate the right words to respond to him. A chill crept through her, gnawing at her bones, freezing her from inside. Part of her welcomed it, part of her might have even expected it. Who else would have been privileged enough to warrant a photo on his wall? It explained his lengthy absences, and her restriction to the club. It explained too much, and not enough.

 _How could I have been so stupid?_ After all the mistakes she'd made, all the poor judgments and hurt that followed, she should have known better than to trust him.

She pulled the sheet around her, modesty returned; her body felt raw and vulnerable, exposed in the dark room. But not only that, she felt cheap, she felt expendable. How many girls might have come before her? The thoughts trickling in suddenly became a waterfall; had Ros known, and had she lied about her ignorance of Littlefinger’s past? Was his wife aware of her husband’s extracurriculars? There was a boy in the photo as well, and was that his son? Was the child near to her own age?

The man was still staring up, that awful smile on his face might have almost been a grimace; she couldn’t quite tell in the darkness. His hand was on his chest, idly fingering his glossy scar. He seemed just as lost in thought as she was. Perhaps he was trying to formulate some sort of excuse for her, the way she’d watched adulterers do on daily soap operas. Perhaps he didn’t think he needed one.

It wasn't that she'd never witnessed it in her life; she'd known about the parents of her friends and distant relations having affairs. It had all seemed so far away at the time, limited to the periphery of her world. Her parents had loved one another, truly, and so she did not have to think on that sort of thing. Faced with it firsthand, with a married man old enough to be her father, she was completely unprepared; the unknowing guilty party being pulled into an undertow. 

The thin bedding material cocooned around her in a makeshift sort of armour, the girl gathered her scattered thoughts for a handful of long seconds. She was exhausted, too fatigued to be properly angry, but she was mustering more energy by the second. Over and over, a chant formed in her head, and she nearly heard her mother’s voice in the words.

_I don’t deserve this._

Sansa sat up, her spine rigid, adjacent to the soft mattress, staring down at him with hard eyes. “Get out.” She spoke the words quietly, but the venom dripped from them.

He didn’t move. He didn’t do anything for a moment, his index continuing to trace the remnants of the wound. She leaned in toward him, and his eyes languidly drifted to meet hers. Green more than grey, with no trace of an apology, he simply _stared_. And still he did not speak.

“Get out, now.” A harsher direction, but still nearly a whisper, as tears began to well in her eyes. She would not let them fall until he left. He didn’t deserve to see.

Not a muscle shifted in response to her command.

Her hand darted out, index pointing to the half open door. “Go home, go home to your family. _Leave me alone_.” The last part was oddly devoid of ire, replaced with a plea. And she was sure that the plea was what caused him to look away and pick himself up at last, his back toward her as he stood and slipped on his pants. He didn’t bother with his shirt, leaving it on the floor as he made his way across the room.

Petyr softly closed the door after him. He hadn’t given her a second glance.

Sansa sat for long moments, staring at the empty path he’d taken, unsure of what she was expecting. Did she want him to come back, to tell her it was all some terrible joke? Or did she want him to beg for forgiveness; and that would indeed have been a foolish idea…the man would never beg. Not for her and not for anyone else.

She inhaled through her nose, bringing in the lingering smells of sweat, exhaling only when she felt a bit dizzy. Moving to a stand, bare feet padded on the floor, and she bent down to grab the discarded article of clothing. She slipped on the shirt slowly, taking in the scent of him as she fell back onto the bed and curled into herself, relishing the last bits of warmth from their bodies.


	39. club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still need you, but  
> i don't want you now

“Time to wake up.”

For a moment, for a fleeting second in her addled mind, she thought she might be home. Robb used to wake her up each morning, calling her for the breakfast their mother would be preparing, rolling his eyes with a loud sigh when she’d wrap the blanket around her head in refusal. Once, he’d had to pull her from under her cover of protection by her ankles.

But the tone was wrong, and she knew it wasn’t him. Robb was dead, and so was her mother. There would be no hand on her ankle, no smell of toast wafting up to her room to entice her down the stairs. The closest thing she had to family was a liar, and the voice did not belong to him, either.

The inflection was vaguely familiar, and when she opened her eyes she realised why. The blonde man, the one running Littlefinger’s other operations, stood near enough to the bed, looking down at the girl with a raised eyebrow. She blinked again, eyes still faintly hazy from burying her face in the pillow. “Olyvar. What are you doing here?”

She felt a weight on the bed, light enough to be clothing, and she was silently thankful for the shirt she’d pulled on hours before. The loose material clung to her, still smelling of his aftershave, _of him_ , even with the lengthening gap of time since it had been tossed aside.

If he was surprised by the girl in Littlefinger’s bed he did his best to hide it, or he simply didn’t care. “I thought we’d already established that I work for your…boss.” He let the word hang, scanning her up and down; his employer’s shirt on the girl, and nothing else. “I did mention I’d be here. We have interviews today.”

She sat up, her hands made fists against the covering that was too large for her, staring down at the clothes he’d brought. A black shirt and white blouse, along with a pair of heels. “Interviews?”

He nodded. “We have to hire a replacement for your little coke fiend. Littlefinger wanted you to make the decision.”

For a minute she’d forgotten what happened the night before, but it came flooding back in at the mention of him. She could not hide the bite in her voice; he worked for the terrible man, after all. “Then what are you doing here?” He was a part of it. Something childish and angry inside of her wondered if Olyvar had met the man’s wife.

His mouth tilted, amused by her tone. “I’m here to help. I assume you’re never hired anyone before.”

She shook her head, grip replacing at her sternum.

“I thought so. You’ll need some help. Get dressed and I’ll meet you at the bar. The first one will be here in a half hour.” With that, the turned and left her to change, closing the door quietly behind him.

 

Sansa showered, the water hot enough to leave her skin pink, hot enough to wash the man off of her. But she still did as she was told, slipping on the skirt, the heels, a brunette wig. Her feet brought her to the bar late; the first girl had already been dismissed, Olyvar muttered as she sat down next to him on the couch. He was unaffected by her tardiness; she wondered if anything at all might irk him.

The music was playing, and she wondered when she’d get to speak to the girls. “Shouldn’t we be doing the interviews first?”

Olyvar glanced in her direction for a second, a slight smile at his mouth. “It’s easier to have them dance first. They can’t hide behind their words.” With that, he nodded to the girl at the pole, shy and awkward in front of them. She was too nervous, visibly shaking as she swayed. “It’s good to be a little shy, Alayne. To demure, to look bashful. But there’s a line; there has to be confidence as well. Some men want to see a girl who can control the room with her eyes. Some men want a girl who’s timid. The best ones can do both.” He picked up his drink, something clear with a slice of cucumber floating around, and shooed the girl off stage with his hand. “You should remember that yourself. Might do you some good.”

And how much did he know about her? How much did he know about Littlefinger? “I don’t think I’ll take advice from someone who helps run a chain of strip clubs, thanks.”

Another breathy laugh. “Suit yourself. And I wouldn’t use the term “chain” in front of him if I were you. Not unless you want to see him angry.”

Sansa sighed, crossing her legs away from the man as the final girl glided onto the stage. And as she started moving, Olyvar’s words made some peculiar sort of sense. She had chestnut hair that fell in waves down her back, her red dress hugging each curve in the most alluring way. And when she moved she took the audience with her; each arch, each slide of her legs were a perfect, fluid dance. But that wasn’t what captivated Sansa; her eyes, dark and full of life, were her selling feature. She could be shy, she could be in control with those eyes. She was either, she was both.

It was powerful.

Olyvar nodded as he pulled his mobile from his pocket, extending it out to snap a photo of the girl. A second later the phone lit up. “He says she’ll do. We can wrap this up.”

Sansa paused, confused as she watched him stand and did so herself. “Wait. Don’t you want to talk to her? What about the interview?”

Olyvar chuckled and turned to her. “The candidates come from a very…selective group of applicants. There won’t be any surprises. And she needs to start tonight.”

The girl almost didn’t ask, but the words fell out despite herself. “Will he be here tonight?”

Olyvar’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward her. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course he didn’t. Telling you would _make sense_.” He looked down to his phone again, and back to her. “He won’t be coming around anymore. The club’s yours now. Congratulations, I suppose.”


	40. paper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't want wanna see another night  
> no i don't want to taste another life  
> the walls are breathing in and now i  
> continue to deny another

Sansa sat at his desk, carefully running her fingers through the files and files of paperwork. The club’s details were there; the financial reports, the inventory lists, the vendor compilations, but anything related to Petyr Baelish had been removed sometime in the last few days. She wondered when he’d done it, when exactly he'd eliminated some of the larger traces of himself from the club. Surely not the night he left; there wouldn’t have been time. He must have been planning it before the argument, before she told him to leave. Or perhaps Olyvar had scurried into the office sometime that afternoon, hauling the personal files away as he left, although Sansa doubted Littlefinger would trust such a task to anyone other than himself.

His spare clothes were gone from his wardrobe, his personal laptop exchanged for a new model, free of emails or browser history. To anyone else, it might have seemed as if she’d been the one running the club all along.

There was one exception to his lack of presence. On the desk’s wooden surface was a single sheet of paper, a document releasing the establishment to Alayne Stone, with a blank space where her signature would be. Above it was his own signature, looped with care. For a long moment she just stared at the thing, wondering what she really wanted, wishing she had someone to talk to.

 

She left the form there, unsigned, and heels brought her back into the bar, winding her way through the crowd that was beginning to pick up for the evening. Did she enjoy spending her nights running the place, or did she want to break free from it all? She couldn’t deny scrolling her name across the paper was tempting; she would be in control, in charge, and when had she ever had that sort of opportunity? To have something of her own, as unscrupulous as the job might be.

Alayne scanned the room, and to her dismay he was there. Of course he was; Ramsay, the constant presence in her life where Littlefinger was not. The boy nursed his drink as usual, ignoring those around him. It unsettled her more than her body and face betrayed, it unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She thought of the bruises, of the girl calling herself Arya, and her hand curled into a fist at her side.

Her first impulse was to call him, to ask him to come back and make the boy leave. Petyr Baelish would know what to do, he would _care_ that the boy made her uncomfortable. But that impulse wasn’t going to do her any good, she knew; not anymore. The man had lied, and left, and this was her own problem now; he’d made it clear enough with the sheet of paper on his old desk.

It was her own problem, and she was going to solve it.

Sansa made her way to the barstool he occupied, her fist loosening as she approached. The boy looked up to her, as if he’d been waiting for her, relinquishing the hold on his beer. “Alayne, right?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes hard. “And you’re Ramsay.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you properly.” He extended his hand, and she could almost believe that the warm expression on his face was real. But they were all that way, weren’t they? Joffrey, Petyr, Ramsay…they all seemed so kind, so caring, until they grew bored, or annoyed, or they found something more exciting or more profitable. It was never real, and she wouldn’t be fooled again.

His hand was left hanging, ignored as she spoke. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You can finish your drink, but after that you'll have to find somewhere else to go.”

He appeared quite taken aback. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand. What did I do?” And again, his expression of confusion was so honest in appearance, she nearly dropped the matter entirely.

 _No. You can’t stop now. Be strong, be strong_. She spoke sternly, her voice low against the music vibrating around the room. “Do you understand what sort of place this is?”

He nodded, his spine straightening. “It’s a bar.”

“It’s a _club_. A strip club, Ramsay. If you’re not going to avail of the services offered, you shouldn’t be lingering.”

And then he did something she was not expecting: _He laughed_. It was loud; several of the people around them turned their heads to see what was so funny. One of the security staff took a few steps toward them, watching carefully.

“ _Oh._ Okay, I get it.” The boy reached into his pocket, pulling out a black wallet. His hand slipped inside, extracting a wad of cash. He took a single 20, holding it up to Sansa between index and thumb, and dropped it directly in front of her. And he did it again, and again, and again, green bills floating slowly down.

She watched the money fall to her feet. “What are you doing?”

“What you asked me to. _I’m paying_.” And how quickly his face changed. It grew dark and cruel, the smile shifted into something sadistic as he continued tossing the money in her direction. “Go on, then. Dance for me.” He jumped off his barstool, invading her space, his hand lifting up to stroke her cheek. His fingers were freezing and wet, damp from the mug’s condensation, and she turned her face away to avoid his touch.

Security was on him before the girl had a chance to speak again. She nodded to the much larger man, relieved as he started pulling Ramsay away by the arms. He didn’t struggle; he went willingly, staring at her the entire time, wearing a strange smile. An eyebrow lifted, and he spoke. “Well, if you won’t dance with me, I’ll find someone who will. And who do you think that’ll be, _Sansa_?”


	41. wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i left you there to finish starting fires  
> i left you there to propagate your lie  
> i left you there 'cause honey, I was tired  
> i left you, but that doesn't make it right

_Sansa._

He knew her name. Her real name. As he was guided through the door she nearly chased after them. She needed to know how he’d figured it out. And if Ramsay knew, surely his father was privy to the same information. It might not be long, then, before they fed her secret to the Lannisters.

It wouldn’t be safe for her for very much longer, in the club, in the city. Anywhere, really; once they knew she was alive, and on the run, they would double their efforts.

The girl packed a small bag, all essential items, in preparation. She needed to be ready in a moment’s notice, ready to flee. One evening she learned every possible way out of the club, every window, door and fire exit. She'd saved enough money to make it out of town, to get far enough away so she couldn’t be found. No credit cards, no flights; she could disappear.

But for some reason she found it impossible to leave. Rationality told her to get a head start, to find somewhere safe before the lions caught wind, but something tethered her to the spot.

_Someone._

 

Three days passed, and Ramsay had not returned to the club. The girls were more at ease without him, after the spectacle he made, and so were the customers. Despite it all, Sansa could not help but glance to the entrance every few minutes, expecting him to return. She could not help but remember his words; what or who had replaced the club? How was he occupying his nights?

The answer came sooner rather than later.

A few more days went by, and one evening, Olyvar was showing her how to keep records of expenditures. They had the paperwork lined up along the bar as the girls left for the night, the man impatiently running over figures. Admittedly, she was grateful for the help; the girl had been drowning for the last several evenings without any assistance. And she could not deny she enjoyed the company, _any company_ ; the girls were still adjusting to her announced ownership, wary of her.

Sansa’s phone vibrated in her pocket, interrupting Olyvar, and she fished it out quickly. There were only a handful of people that had that number, and her first assumption was that Littlefinger was finally contacting her; who else would be calling so late? But when she saw the number her stomach dropped, bringing the mobile to her ear.

The first thing she heard was sniffling. And then, a quiet voice: “Alayne?”

Sansa pressed the phone closer; she could barely hear. “What’s wrong, Arya?”

“I..I don’t…I can’t…” She was speaking in hushed tones, fear heavy in her breath. “I need your help. _Please_.”

Olyvar glanced at her, eyes narrowing, and so she turned, speaking just as low. “Where are you?”

A pause. “I…I shouldn’t…”

Sansa found her voice then, stern as she made a demand. “Tell me now.”

 

Fingers clutched her purse, sliding her jacket through her other arm as Olyvar followed her down the hall. “What’s going on?”

She pressed the door open to Littlefinger’s office, _to her office_ , and grabbed a set of keys to the spare car Petyr Baelish left there. And back out she went, rushing to the exit, to find the girl. “I have to go. Can you close up?”

Her urgency must have been enough to still his irritation; the man’s face softened. “Sure. Go ahead, I’ll lock up.”

She nodded, thankful, and walked into the cold.

 

The apartment was in the centre of the city; a newer building, dozens of floors of accommodation judging from the outside of it. It didn’t seem like the sort of place the Lannisters would have kept Arya Stark, and the thought of the girl being inside a strange home only served lead her inside at a hastened pace.

She’d been given a number, somewhere on the sixth floor. It wasn’t until the elevator ride that she realised she had no weapon, no tool to help the girl, save some mace Ros had given her months ago. It would have to be enough; she couldn’t leave her there.

She reached the door, 612, and found it unlocked. Sansa didn’t knock; unwilling to alert anyone her presence. There were no lights on in the first room, what appeared to be the living area by the shadows of furniture. A dim glow came from the kitchen, the white tiles reflecting the illumination, and so she walked further into the foreign place, eyes alert.

“Ayra?” She whispered into the dark room, hoping for some sort of response. Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps she no longer needed help.

But it wasn’t too late; Sansa found her in the kitchen, sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest. Dried blood on the side of her mouth, tear tracks on her face, her hair and clothing in disarray; she'd been hurt. On the counter rested an uncorked bottle of wine and a single glass, red roses in a vase and a candle lit between them; it was as if the evening had started as a romantic date.

“Who did this to you?” The older girl leaned forward, hand extended to help her up. “Where are they?”

She didn’t speak, and didn’t take the offered hand. Instead, she simply turned her neck to meet Sansa’s stare. But as she looked up her eyes widened, terror covering her face. She was looking beyond Sansa, and she knew they were no longer alone.

“Arya, my dear, you didn’t tell me you invited a friend over. I would have opened a second bottle of Merlot.”

Sansa turned to find him there, glass of red loose in his hand, with that horrible smile on his face.


	42. corkscrew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no, she's not a secret now
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vkub_jzKX9s

As he moved closer Sansa remained still, refusing to back away and leave the girl vulnerable. She was the only thing preventing the boy from hurting her; she wouldn’t let him lay a hand on her again.

He set down the glass, taking another step toward them.

“Now, we have a bit of a problem here.” A cordial tone paired with another step, and he could nearly reach out and touch her. “You’re interrupting.”

Her hand slid into her purse, keeping eye contact with him. “I’m taking her with me.”

The boy chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t reward intruders, Sansa.”

Fingers felt for the spray in her bag. “How do you know my name?”

“ _Ah._ You don’t know?” She could smell his breath, the scent of wine and copper, and she fought back the urge to cringe when he spoke. “You have a rat.”

The words caused her hand to still. “Who?”

“Well now, it wouldn’t be fun if I told, would it? Let them keep scurrying around.” He reached out to touch the strap of her purse, his fingers brushing against her shoulder. In her periphery she could see the girl on the floor creeping back, away from them. _Good, keep moving, get out of here._

Ramsay didn’t notice; his focus on her, sweeping over her body, a dog having found a treat. “The little rat can be awfully chatty. I’ve heard the most interesting stories. About you.” As he continued to speak her hand clutched the mace, pulling the object from her bag. He frowned, lips pouting at her. “Now tell me the truth: Did he force himself on you, you poor thing? Or did you enjoy Littlefinger’s cock? Did you beg for it?” The purse fell from her shoulder, a dull thud onto the ground. “You know, I’m willing to bet you loved it.” His mouth at her ear, lips almost caressing her lobe. “I’m willing to bet I could made you _beg_.”

Her arm darted out, ready to act, but before she could press the button his hand grabbed her wrist, preventing her from spraying him with the chemical. “No. No you don’t.” His hand wrapped around her neck, pushing her back into the counter. His entire form pressed against hers, and he choked. “Drop it.” Ramsay ordered quietly into her ear.

Sansa’s free hand jerked at his arm, attempting to fight him off. She scanned the room, panicked, for the younger girl. She was gone, she’d escaped, and Sansa didn’t know whether she was thankful for it or not; she was left her entirely alone with him. He squeezed, and her hand loosened the hold on the mace, letting it fall. Instead of releasing her, Ramsay’s grip on her neck only tightened. Her breath came in short, struggling bursts, eyes wide as she watched him.

Behind her, her back dug into the counter, nudging the wine bottle until it tipped, the dark red spilling along her spine. If she could grab the bottle, if she could make him look away from a moment…

“She’s gone.” Sansa managed to sputter out the words, and the distraction worked. The boy turned his neck, looking to the place the girl was been, finding it vacant. Her hand flew behind her, awkward from the angle she was being held. Fingers found the glass, trying to grab it, but the bottle rolled away from her, slipping from her reach.

Her palm slid against the wine-covered surface, hope lost for half a second, before digits connected with something. She wrapped her hand around it, gripping it tightly.

“Ramsay.” Catching his attention, he turned back to her, and the arm behind her came around, the corkscrew in her hold aiming for his side.

It met its mark as she forced it into him, digging into his flank, and his grip on her neck fell away. Sansa retracted the weapon, keeping the bloodied corkscrew in her hand. One stab wouldn't be enough to kill him, she knew, and so she managed to quickly connect, deeper than the first, with his torso twice more before he was able to stop her.

The boy found her wrist, holding her hand and the metal she wielded above them as he attempted to keep her against the counter. “You stupid little bitch. I’ll kill you for that.” He spat the words into her face, chest heaving as she struggled. The boy was angry, but he was also weakening; she could feel the way his body was losing strength against her.

Sansa wasn’t helpless; not anymore. She angled her hip, then, to press hard against his wounds, and the boy retreated a step, groaning as he hunched forward. His hold faltered just enough for her to break away, and in one quick movement, before she had time to consider what she was doing, she embedded the corkscrew into his eye. It glided in, easier than she might have expected, with a sickening squelch. It was noise she would never forget.

That final blow was enough to bring him to his knees, the handle of the twisted metal sticking grotesquely from his socket. His shirt was seeping, damp with his blood. And he was moaning; his hands flailing on either side of him, unsure of just what to do. 

And as she reached for her purse, pulling out her phone, she wondered how long it would take for him to die.


	43. wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we keep each other warm  
> but we both know it's not enough  
> if all that we are is two matching scars

He’d stopped moving sometime before she heard the door open down the hall. From his knees Ramsay had managed to land on his back, the wails becoming weaker and softer as he faded. Sansa stared at him, unable to turn her gaze from the life that was slowly slipping away.

It was strange, how she wasn’t frightened. She was calm, knowing exactly whose quick steps were heading toward her. Hands steady at her sides, she was still watching the body, the corkscrew embedded where his eye had been, when she heard him enter the kitchen.

The man saw the body first, the small pool of blood by his torso, his uninjured eye staring up to the ceiling. There was no surprise there; if anything he appeared slightly amused, one eyebrow tilting up before he finally moved his gaze to her.

“A corkscrew?” He made a “tsk” noise with his tongue.

She still didn’t meet his eyes. “I had to improvise.”

He nodded, she could see the tilt in her periphery, feel his eyes traveling down her body as he spoke. “Are you hurt?”

She nearly said yes, but the man was simply asking about any physical injury. “No. No I’m fine.”

“Where’s Arya?” His tone was businesslike, and much too casual.

“She’s not Arya-”

“Where is she?” More firmly, the second time he asked.

She looked up to him, the liar, the cruel man, the only one who might help her. “She ran. I don’t know. She’s gone.” He wasn’t phased by the body, by the blood. Littlefinger had his mobile in hand, already dialling a series of numbers. He turned away from her, then, muttering something into his phone.

Sansa stood still, waiting for him to end the call, watching as he set his phone down on the counter near the dead thing, taking another quick glance to the body. “I’ll take care of it.”

She was prepared to explain herself, prepared to give him money, to thank him for the assistance. The man was walking toward her, and she stuttered out a string of words, a thank you, but he didn’t seem to hear them at all. He’d nearly closed the distance between them, lips parted and eyes dark, and Sansa found herself backing away. For every step she retreated he met her with two advances, until there was nowhere else for her to go.

“Looks like it took a while.”

She nodded, attempting to hide her uneven breath. “He just stopped moving, before you showed up.”

He didn’t seem to care about her answer, pressing her against the wall, his chest on hers, pushing the air from her lungs. “Next time aim for an artery. Exsanguination would have been faster. Only a few minutes.”

Startled, the breath left her, and her wide eyes found his. “What?”

“An artery. You know.” Index and middle moved below her ear, tracing a line down her neck. “Carotid…” And down below her shoulder, to the crook of her elbow. “Brachial….” His hand slithered then, untucking her blouse from her skirt, fingers slipping under her garment. Digits felt her upper thigh, beside her apex, pressing against her skin. “Femoral.”

She thought she knew all of his looks, all of his expressions, but this one was new. It was a hard look, the greenish colour nearly gone, and the man seemed to see beyond her, through her. He was growing frenzied, feverish as he felt her; it happened so suddenly her mind had no time to react.

Without her reason to guide her, muscle memory took over. Her arms anchored on his shoulders as he hitched one of her legs around his torso. And later, she would tell herself she wasn’t in her right mind; instinct alone allowed her to moan aloud into the room when he pressed his hardness between her opened legs, hitching her skirt up for access.

With his unoccupied hand he freed himself from his slacks, and it was only seconds before he’d pushed her underwear aside and filled her in one fluid press.

If she’d expected him to be kind, she would have been disappointed. Lucky for her, she hadn’t.

He jerked her hair, never meeting her mouth as he found her neck with his teeth, a dull tug that would leave a mark. The wall was unforgiving on her back as she slid up and down, gripping him tighter around the neck.

A final, few harsh bucking motions into her and she was sent over, a blinding sort of sensation, digging her nails into him as he kept her upright, sliding one of his arms around her torso. And he was spent as well; she could feel the warmth spreading inside of her as the man groaned, something raw and primal, into her neck.

Her leg dropped as pulled out of her, his breathing heavy against her as he tucked himself away. Hands moved to her skirt, pulling it back down even as she felt his seed between her legs.

But Sansa, despite the lapse in judgement, had not forgotten. She pulled away from him entirely, making her way toward the door. She didn’t spare the body a last glance, and she did not turn again to Petyr. The girl left them both without another word.

And when she made it back to the club, covered in wine, covered in someone else’s blood, covered in his seed, she found it empty; Olyvar had closed it for the night. As she cleaned herself up, the dull sound of a shower was her only comfort, the only noise aside from her own breathing.

 

She woke up sometime in the middle of the night, hours after crawling into the bed. A weight on the mattress, someone behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She knew it by now, his touch, his fluid movements, his controlled inhalations.

A kiss on the exposed part of her shoulder, a murmur against her skin, “it’s done,” before he left again, back to his own life.


	44. boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one petyr chapter (the only one i'll write for tourniquet aside from the separate drabbles and prompts set in this verse!)  
> it sort of serves as a break in the story i suppose.  
> also, it's ahead of the current Sansa timeline, so there's a bit of a hint at what's to come for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got a tortured mind  
> and my blade is sharp  
> a bad combination in the dark
> 
> if i kill a man in the first degree  
> baby would you?  
> would you flee with me?

**[petyr]**

He was skimming his emails, a cup of coffee loosely held in his hand. The man’s eyes were alert as he took in the words; reading between the lines of the text was vital in his area of business. True intention was often buried in pages and pages of documents, and he enjoyed the challenge of deciphering what message was truly being conveyed. On this morning, it was less enjoyable than usual; the fatigue was apparent in the faint shadow below his eyelids, in the yawn he fought back as he stood facing the sink.

From his position he couldn’t see the boy, but he could hear him. Or, rather, he could hear _nothing_ ; no sound of clinking silverware, no food being shovelled into his greedy little mouth. The man sighed, not sparing him a glance. “Finish your breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.” He didn’t need to turn to see that childish defiance there, that burgeoning rebellious phase all boys went through. It was compounded in this boy; coddled by an over-affectionate mother and worsened by a chronic illness, he would be more awful than the rest. He already was, really.

“Are you not?” He turned, an idle, tired look in the boy’s direction. “I suppose you’ll want to miss dinner as well, then?”

The spoon landed heavily into the bowl of cereal, spilling some of the milk over the edge. He pushed it away, then, and bits of marshmallow went flying with it. Small arms crossed against his chest in typical insubordination. He was a scrawny boy, the sort of pale, thin child that was raised by hospitals and nannies. His dark hair was an unruly mop on his head, having no one to fix it for him while on his school holiday. He might have felt sorry for him, in another life. Perhaps sometimes he _did_ feel some semblance of empathy for the almost entirely orphaned child, but not then. Not when his petulant eyes gave the man a cold stare as he groused. “Why do you even care? I’ll be away again soon.”

“Not soon enough.” He muttered into the space between them, the uncaring stepfather watched the food settling in the bowl again. “Perhaps you'll starve before you make it back?”

"That would make you happy, wouldn't it?" The boy scoffed, likely something learned from snobbish peers from affluent families. “You don’t even like me.”

Petyr raised an eyebrow. The boy wasn’t wrong; he had no use for a whiny, selfish thing in his home. The boarding school was chosen for that reason specifically; the institution prided itself on long years with short breaks. A few days more at home and young Robert Arryn would be gone and gone, off to receive the finest of educations on a separate continent.

Off to irritate someone else, someone paid.

The man didn’t respond to his accusation. He didn’t need to; they both knew the truth, the mutual disdain, the tether in the form of Lysa Arryn that kept them together despite their lack of fondness for the other. Instead, he set the coffee down, half empty, and slipped his phone into his pocket, heading out of the kitchen. “Clean up that mess, or you’ll never get breakfast here again.”

He didn’t bother acknowledging his warden’s words; the man was already out the door.

 

In his car, he rubbed his hand over his face, attempting to gain the boost a half-mug of coffee had not provided. it had been a mistake, his last trip to the club that was no longer in his name. He could still feel the last lingering kiss, see her red hair cascading down her bare, pale back. He hadn't expected she’d let him into the bed, into her arms after such a short time. Still, it hadn’t been a very _amiable_ fuck; it had been raw and open and terrible and _good._

He shouldn't have done it, but he wasn't sorry. There were few things in his life that gave him any ounce of guilt, and she certainly wasn't one of them.

But he had to stop the midnight visits; they were too much of a distraction, too much of a risk. The Lannisters suspected everyone now, and the search for the fake Stark girl was becoming more and more of an obsession by the unhinged woman at the head of the firm. Million dollar reward offers, police bribery...Petyr took it all in from his office, watching the company thread begin to pull apart.

He had to admit it; the trips to the club, to her, were making him tired, sloppy in his work. Cersei had noticed, and in her current state he had been surprised she did. Despite her own addled brain she could see the distracted stares, the fatigue in his eyes, and if she wasn’t questioning it fully now she would be soon. For the moment, he could use the excuse of playing father to a visiting stepson, but that half-truth would only keep for a few days before the boy was back to school. After that?

The engine started, Petyr opting to drive himself to work. He wasn’t in a position to trust anyone at the moment; not with Lannister employees dropping like flies, not with Roose's men running rampant around the city. The car pulled onto the road, and he'd have to speed if he wanted to make it to work on time. He turned the radio on, an attempt to catch the very latest information for the day in preparation.

He smiled, despite the foggy eyes, despite the haste, wondering if Sansa had been watching the news. _Have you seen it, what I’ve done? What you started by killing the boy?_

And he knew, even as he warned himself not to, where he would end up at the end of the day.

**[-]**


	45. ceiling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you'll need more than a glass of wine  
> she's not that kind of girl

The lack of light through the window told her it was not yet dawn. She didn’t reach for her phone to check the specific time; her arms were numb at her sides. Her back rested against the cool sheets, the expensive ones Petyr insisted on, and she wondered why she came to his room at all. He would have found her, kissed her shoulder, in the apartment upstairs anyway, she reasoned.

Perhaps she should stop wearing his shirt to bed.

Sansa stared at the ceiling, and the dead boy was all she could see. He’d said there was a rat, and faces flitted through her mind as she considered who it might have been, who it might _be_. Surely some of the girls would have been smart enough to piece it together, and money was a language they all spoke entirely too well. The right price could have provided Ramsay with the information he needed.

Her chest tightened, then, when she thought of Ros. She’d known the whole time, who Sansa was, where she came from and what she’d done. Could it have been her? Is that why Roose killed her, erasing her from the game, having outlived her usefulness?

And of course there was Olyvar. Littlefinger might have told him in confidence, or he could have figured it out. She remembered the morning Olyvar found her in his bed, still covered in him, her red hair free. He’d seen her hair, without a wig to hide it…

She turned to her side, wrapping her arms around herself. Sansa wondered then, if she would ever feel clean again. She wasn’t certain if it was all the death that made her feel that way, or the lying man who helped her through each one. Despite the rotting feeling inside her, she didn’t regret killing Ramsay, in the same way she did not regret Joffrey. She was a murderer, yes, but the first time was to save herself, and the second was to save a girl.

It was the thought of the girl, the not-Arya girl, that finally compelled her to check her phone. She might have called, she might have needed help. And where was she? Sansa searched her slim list of contacts, pressing her name on the screen. She hadn’t expected an answer, and silence was exactly what she received. There was no option to leave a message.

Sansa closed her eyes and prayed for sleep. But what right did she have to pray for anything any longer?

 

It was on the news, the boy’s death. She caught it sometime in the afternoon while running through the day’s schedule, waiting for Olyvar to arrive. The odd thing was, it wasn’t classified as a murder. A suicide, they'd called it, the son of a wealthy entrepreneur had been found dead. There were no further details.

She wanted to call him, to ask him what he'd done to ensure no one suspected murder. And more than that, she wanted to hear his voice, to have that same reassurance from the night before. _It’s done_ , he’d said, and he was the only one in the world now that she believed. The man had kissed her shoulder, and all she wanted was more and more.

But she didn’t need him, a mantra she repeated in her mind over and over until that desire fell away. _I don't, I don't._

Some part of her expected the girl to show up, to seek a safe haven in the club. It seemed, however, as the evening went by, and another and another, that she was smarter than that. On the third day the media caught wind, and a full scale search was implemented. Cersei Lannister’s face was on every news channel, solemnly offering a hefty reward for any information on Arya Stark’s whereabouts.

If only Sansa knew where her real sister was. As much as the fake one had become somewhat near to her, she would never settle for an impostor. And there it was again, one more thing to bind her to the man with the greenish grey eyes and the unending smirk. He could help Sansa find her sister, if he saw a benefit from it. And so she needed to find a way it might profit him.

 

Another week, and Sansa hired an assistant. She didn’t ask Petyr; she didn’t need to anymore. The club was more than profitable, she could afford the extra help. Olyvar had offered to take her on for a week, to show her the daily operations, and she was more than grateful for the time alone. She watched the news, waiting for any updates, waiting for the girl to be found.

As days continued to pass the rewards became steeper, the search expanded. Cersei’s words grew more pleading than the prior reserved manner of her speech. Sansa couldn’t place it, not exactly, but there was something _off_. There was more to the story, more than just a lost girl; something had changed. Her eyes focused on the screen, on the little tells in the woman’s voice, in her posture; it told a different sort of tale. She remembered those nearly imperceptible twitches, the slightly higher pitch when she spoke, that indicated fury, that indicated fear.

 

It was the odd behaviour by Cersei in the end that brought her to his home. She was convinced he had something to do with it, or at the very least knew who did. Sansa needed to know, and found herself caring less and less about the consequences.

She could lie, she decided, if his wife answered the door, if she questioned her visit. A girl seeking a job, recommended by a friend. She had the false story planned out; as long as Littlefinger went along with the tale she saw no reason for the unknown woman to be suspicious.

And so in a brunette wig she approached the home she’d visited once before, taking a deep breath before she knocked.


	46. coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i was surrounded by the world  
> you were the only one who came

For a moment she thought no one was home. Sansa heard no movement, no sound behind the door to indicate someone meandering to open it. After the second knock she turned, aiming to leave, when the wooden entrance eased open, only a few inches. The girl could see a pair of young, wide eyes peeking out from inside the home. She tilted her head down, toward his eye level, attempting to hide her surprise.

“What do you want?” It was a child, a boy. His hand gripped the frame tightly, as if he was preparing to run away at any second.

The girl held her breath while she took in the situation. The man had a wife, he had a son. She _knew_ , and yet seeing the proof, seeing tangible evidence of his words was more upsetting than she’d expected. As she exhaled her mouth displayed a sweet smile, keeping that nettling sadness underneath the surface. She didn’t want to scare the boy. “Where are your parents?”

He didn’t answer at first, simply staring at her instead. He must have decided she was worth speaking to, because he drew an inch closer to her, still inside the house, when he spoke. “Gone.”

With his answer, with her smile, the door widened a little more. Curiosity must have been getting the better of him as he watched her suspiciously. The boy’s brows furrowed as she turned to fully face him. “Who are you?”

It was the boy from the photo, she could see it clearly now. The dark messy hair, the thin frame. He was older, but she couldn’t be sure what age he was exactly; he looked ill, pale and worn. But she didn’t let her assessment of him show, keeping her smile for him. “A friend of your father.” Not entirely a lie, although it certainly wasn’t the truth. “When will they be back?”

He paused, seeming to think the question over. And then: “I’m not supposed to open the door for anyone while he’s out.”

She leaned in, giving him a serious nod. “It’s probably safer that way, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” The boy looked down for a moment, almost shyly. “You seem nice, though. You can come in.” And he was visible entirely, allowing her the space to slip between the door and himself, an invitation.

Was he truly left alone in the house, a boy of his age? She wondered if there was a nanny, a housekeeper, that might be minding him. And more, she found the prospect of Littlefinger finding her in his home, with his son, worrying.

The girl shook her head. “I’d better not. I wouldn’t want him to be cross with you.”

He didn’t seem to want her to go; this disappointment was plain in his stooping posture. “Will you come back again? Maybe after he gets home?” The poor boy, he sounded so hopeful, so lonely. And Sansa could understand it.

“Maybe.”

 

 +

 

“I understand you met Robert today.”

Her eyes flew open, startled awake by his words. She sat up, fingers curling into the sheet while she brought the material to her chest, as if the fabric might protect her, shield her from the man. He was standing next to the bed, looking down at her with apathy. He must have come straight to the room; he still had his coat on. 

What time was it? She could see it was still dark by the lack of light in the room, but she wasn’t sure how near to morning it was. “You never told me you had a son.”

He continued to stare, one eyebrow raising at her counter. “ _Stepson_. He’s not mine.”

Blue eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t matter.” _A lie_ ; she found an odd sort of relief from it. “You still didn’t tell me.”

“I don’t tell you a lot of things.” He had his phone in his hand, and as he took a step closer to the bed he set it on the side table. “What were you doing at my house?”

She found herself relaxing as the seconds passed, the adrenaline of being jolted awake slowly leaving her. “Looking for you.” The obvious answer, and Littlefinger was clearly not impressed with it. She saw his jaw tense, clenching his teeth, but she still didn’t elaborate.

When it was clear she was finished speaking, the man took a final step, his legs just touching the mattress. He was looking at her shirt then, at _his_ shirt on her, when he spoke. “And?”

“I saw Cersei, on the news.” Fingers twitched at her chest as she wondered how much information she could get from him this time. “She looked frightened.”

And did she see a slight look of pride when he met her gaze again? She might have imagined it; as fast as it appeared it was gone again. “You noticed that, did you?”

Sansa nodded. “What’s going on? What have you done?” It was him, of course it was him. It had to be him.

“What did I do?" He shrugged, side eyeing the phone on the table as the screen lit up with alerts. "Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Petyr smiled at the insult, a brief tilt of the mouth as he shrugged off his coat, letting it fall to the floor.

Sansa didn’t want to give up; she pressed further. “Why is Ramsay’s murder being covered up as a suicide?”

And the smirk returned at her question, paired with something akin to a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Tell me now.”

He shook his head slowly, teasing her as he tugged the sheet, pulling it away from her in one fluid movement. A knee on the bed, and the man was closing in, lips parted as he leaned toward her. “Later.”

Before she could register what was happening he was on her, flipping her over, dragging her back up to meet his chest.


	47. knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like a leech,  
> l hold on as if we belonged  
> to some precious, pure dream

His arms came around her, fingers finding the top buttons of the shirt she wore. “This looks good on you.” The man spoke into her ear, his voice low. Her spine was aligned against the scar she knew rested underneath his clothing, and she could feel the vibration of his words on her back.

The wash of breath along her neck, his body pressed to hers, and the girl was losing focus. As her neck tilted, as she set her hands atop his, she tried once more. “Why is Cersei afraid?”

"She has several reasons to be, justifiably so."

"Tell me." Impatience, lust; she wasn't sure which was winning over, her tone a combination of the two battling emotions.

The man sighed, but continued his work, prying apart the clothing, exposing her chest to the air. “Think about it.” With that, he tore, the remaining buttons breaking from the shirt, and she was nearly bare. His hand wasted no time, reaching to cup a breast, harsher than she’d expected. The girl’s breath hitched, and the man ’s other hand found her abdomen, keeping her close. “Who is Roose going to blame for Ramsay’s death?”

Her brows furrowed, the warmth of him against her welcome despite her best efforts to deny it. “But it was ruled a suicide.”

He laughed into her neck, and she could feel the smile. His fingers grazed her nipple, gently, before he pinched. Sansa’s hand reached for his, covering his teasing fingers, keeping them at her chest. “The media can be bought, and so can police, and forensics, if the price is right.”

“So Roose knows he was murdered?”

He nodded into her skin, his fingers sliding down to her apex, and he began to toy with her. “The last thing she needs is an investigation.” His teeth lightly bit into her flesh, and the girl’s head tilted to allow him greater space. “A bit suspicious, don’t you think? Arya Stark goes missing the day Ramsay Bolton is found dead?” Digits began to tease, playing with the throbbing spot between her legs. She was losing focus again, she knew, but she wouldn’t allow herself to miss his words. “Maybe they found her DNA on a wine glass, maybe she left her phone there…”

The girl’s hips rocked, and she could feel his hardness against her. “What will he do? Go after Cersei?”

Petyr worked with her movements, a lewd press below her back, giving himself friction. A hum on her skin, nearly a growl, paired with his open mouth tasting her. “Roose is acting exactly the way I want him to.”

“How?” The question was nearly a whine, as index and middle sunk into her, slick with her need. He began to pump, slow and teasing, and the girl wanted more. 

“He’s irrational, he’s angry, and he thinks he knows the truth of the matter.”

“That the Lannisters killed his son?” So no one suspected Sansa, then. The only two others that were aware of what actually happened were either missing or currently against her.

“Mm. _Good._ ” His fingers slipped out, and she turned her neck to him, confused, not yet sated. She still had questions, _she still pulsed._

That seemed to be all the man was willing to give for the moment; his hand left her breast, snaking back between her shoulder blades, pushing her body down until her palms hit the mattress, her knees spreading at his manoeuvre.

“Petyr?” His hand kept her down, and she could hear his other fumbling with his slacks. And then, his hardness, pressed to her backside, a slow slide against her as he moved to spread her legs further.

He grabbed her hip with one hand, gripping her tightly as he entered her, filling her core in a single, harsh thrust, groaning as he moved. Once inside, his arm wrapped around her middle, reaching again to cup a breast, and the girl moaned into the open space between herself and the bed. She clutched the sheets as he bucked into her, seeming to care not at all about her own pleasure. It was raw, the way his erratic, hasty motions felt, it was fitting, considering the circumstances.

She couldn’t see him at this angle, couldn’t see his face constricted, lost in the sensation. He couldn’t see hers, either. He wouldn’t know how much she’d wanted it, how much she’d missed it, even without a kiss, without the sort of tender contact she might have been craving before. Or maybe her arching back, her body pushing back into him, told the tale for her. 

The pace quickened, and the girl reached between her own legs, attempting to find the pleasure she sought, her fingers rubbing furiously as she tried desperately to catch up to the man’s own rhythm. Her own machinations seemed to stir him further; he pulled her flush, her name on his lips as he moved deeper, harder, in her.

One last thrust and he was spent, a primal sort of noise against her skin, and she was nearly there was well, closing her eyes tightly as her mouth opened in a silent cry.

And for a few long moments they stayed in their positions, both on their knees, the man slowly letting the lingering tremors take them both. His breath was heavy, in tandem with hers as he slipped out of her, wrapping his arms around her torso. A chaste kiss to the top of her shoulder, his seed running down her leg, and the girl was oddly content.

But it would never last; nothing good ever does, and Sansa knew as much. Reality seeped in, her body shivered with their cooling skin, and she pulled away from the man, reaching to cover herself with the sheet beside her. “There’s someone leaking information to the Boltons. They know about me.” She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to.


	48. receipt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and strike you with desire of fault lines  
> no clutch, no storm.  
> i can bind you with no ties and leash, and watch you fall.  
> you see i've got this soul it's all fired up

When she turned to him he’d already zipped up his slacks again, putting himself back together as his eyes hardened. The lust was gone from the leaden stare he gave her, and perhaps Petyr was gone for the moment as well. She wrapped the sheet tighter, waiting for him to say something, _anything_ , about what she’d revealed to him.

Seconds passed before he finally spoke. “How long have you known?” He was still on his knees, looming over her as she sat cross-legged on the mattress.

Should she tell him the truth? Sansa wondered if he would know if she told a lie, but there was no lie to tell. How else would she have known, if not for Ramsay’s cruel words? “The night-“ A hard swallow, and the words tasted foul on her tongue. “The night he died.” _The night I killed him._

He watched her then, without a word. She could see the muscles around his jaw tense, and his chest inflated with a slow, deep breath. After the longer exhale she could see that his shoulders, his arms still retained that rigidity. It was a silent irritation, a quiet fury, that seemed to stew under his skin. “And why did you decide to keep that to yourself?”

No, he would not be the only angry one. She wouldn’t break for him, not anymore. The girl looked up to him, defiance plainly writ on her face. Whatever lingering satisfaction was gone from her now, as the cooling seed dried between her legs, as her cheeks flush in a need to defend herself. “I was angry.”

He met her harsh expression, bending further until his face was inches from hers, a terrible smile on his face. “You were a fool.”

It was nearly a whisper, low and mean, when she responded. “I’m not the only one.”

She wondered if he would lash out at her retort, if he would try to sting her further with his words. But no, instead he calmed, backing away and turning to leave her on the bed. His phone was placed back in his pocket, his hands running through his hair to smooth it down.

He let out a breathy chuckle after a moment, something amused and unkind. “Since you’re so keen on figuring it out for yourself, go ahead. _Go on_.” He pulled out his wallet, picking an old receipt from the pocket. Next to the phone he set it, fishing out a pen from the nightstand drawer and scribbling something onto the surface. Once he finished, he extended the worn paper to her, that awful smirk still plastered on his face.

The girl didn’t reach for it, staring at the offering as if it might have been on fire. “What is it?”

“Take it. Now.” His tone left no room for argument, and the girl tentatively rose her arm to take it between index and thumb.

She brought it toward her eyes to get a proper look. On the paper were a long series of numbers and a word: _Casterly_. It meant nothing to her, it made no sense. The girl’s gaze moved to him, a confused look on her face.

“I have a job for you, little one, since you’re so fond of secrets.” He was leaving; he found his coat, shrugging it on as she stared at the numbers. “Figure out who it is, which one of them is spilling information. When you’re sure, have them arrange a meeting with Roose. Give him that paper.”

She turned the receipt over in her hand, as if the other side of the sheet might reveal more secrets. A disappointment then, when all she found was a list of grocery items and their respective prices. She sighed, something almost childish. “What do the numbers mean? What does Casterly mean?”

The man shrugged at her, as if he didn’t know himself. “I’ll let you figure it out.”

She was tired of the games, of that smile. “Tell me. _Please_.”

Maybe he could see how weary she was growing, how drained her mind and body felt. He nodded, expression softening in some odd sort of concession. “It’s a code and a place. One you’ll never have to see if Roose does what I think he will, and he hasn’t veered from the path yet.”

That seemed to mark the end of his side of the conversation; he was making his way out of the room, heading to the door. She had no idea where he was going, or if he planned to return. No, she wouldn’t let him go yet, not without answers. “Wait, _wait._ ” The girl clutched the sheet as she moved off the bed, reaching him just as he found the door. He turned, barely, his neck just rotating over his shoulder to look back at her. “What’s going to happen if I do what you say? If I meet with Roose and give him this?’

He studied her, seeming to assess her, to decide which lie to tell her. “That depends on you.” The smile left him entirely then, and he moved to face her enough to plant a chaste kiss to her cheek. One hand came up to her shoulder, and he swiped his thumb across her collarbone, something gentle, something almost affectionate. His mouth still against her skin, he spoke. “ Do you remember when I told you to choose vengeance or justice?” The girl nodded, and he continued. “It’s your choice, either way, but it starts now.” With that, he was gone. 

Alone in the room, she sat back onto the bed, the sheet crumpled in her hand. It was her choice, he’d said, and the decision loomed in front of her. She couldn’t escape it now. Run or commit, safety or satisfaction, there would be no purgatory, no limbo for her any longer.


	49. hallway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> http://myrandar.tumblr.com/post/124989273458/what-they-act-like-when-they-havent-had-enough  
> [just a little prompt from a while back via tumblr]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're making light of this i know,  
> and it's a shame  
> that your silly sentimental heart is to blame

It wasn’t until the second night that she grew wary of the new faces lingering around the club. There were three of them, large in stature, making their rounds and chatting up the girls. The odd thing was, their eyes never seemed to stay on the women they paid; they wandered to Sansa, to her assistant, to the other patrons, as if waiting for something to happen.

She might not have noticed at all if she wasn’t already on edge, the constant worry of a Bolton man making an unannounced entrance keeping her vigilant. She considered hiring more security, even making a note to the girl, who now followed her around the bar each night, to put out inquiries in the morning about extra staff.

She was an interesting choice for an assistant by Sansa’s standards. She came on the recommendation of Olyvar, and possessed a sharp wit and a sharper tongue, dark hair and a curvy figure that paired well with her confident stride. They would be near to the same age, and Sansa wondered if the girl thought it was odd she ran such a place as young as she was. If she did wonder, she didn’t ask, and Sansa was thankful for it. The girl didn’t question much of anything, really, as if she knew the waters surrounding her were turbulent enough.

She waited until her assistant walked away to take care of an inventory issue before she took another survey of the three men, still biding their time, still not fully engaging her employees. Sansa pulled her mobile from her pocket, skimming the small list of contacts before reaching Littlefinger’s name.

He answered on the second ring, his voice rough. “What’s wrong?”

She could barely hear him; it sounded like a party was taking place wherever he was, the thrum of music and conversation nearly as loud as the man’s voice. “Three men. Their second night here. Something’s out of the ordinary with them.”

“It’s not my concern now, is it Sansa? That establishment belongs to you, not me.” He spoke the words with the sharp lilt of impatience, and the girl had an urge to hang up the phone.

He was toying with her; the club might belong to Alayne Stone on paper, but there was a reason he had Olyvar lurking around. There was a reason he gave it to her, and she just hadn't figured it out yet. “Who are they?”

He sighed into the phone. “Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.”

“So they’re yours.” She couldn’t hide the relief in her voice, even in her irritation.

“They’re mine.”

She ended the call without another word, hanging up on him without a response. Were the men there on her behalf, watching her in lieu of her lover? If so, she wondered if she could convince one of them to help her. An idea formed in her mind, and she ran with it.

 

She didn’t have to wait long to make eye contact with one of them. When she did, she nodded her head to the hallway, a silent request to meet him there. Almost immediately he pulled away from the girl, handing her a few extra bills before making his way to Sansa.

She waited until she was sure they were far enough to be out of earshot. “You’re here on Littlefinger’s orders, yes?”

The man just stared at her, clearly not willing to talk. Easily half a foot taller than her, and twice as wide, he had the look of someone who might have been in the armed forces, someone who could truly stand his ground in a fight, be it with fists or weapons. Petyr seemed to have chosen his aid well, as Sansa side eyed the other two men, an indication to the one in front of her that she knew who they were and why they were there. 

Another time, another situation and Sansa might have walked away and let it go, but the girl had a plan in motion in her mind, and her boldness grew by the second. “Look, you’re paid by Littlefinger, but this club is my property. If you’re going to stick around you’re going to answer my questions.”

Still, nothing, save a slight eyebrow raise at her attempt at being assertive.

“Are you here to keep me safe?” The girl took a step closer. “It’d be a shame if your proprietor heard that I was disappointed in your services.” A bluff; she was sure Littlefinger wouldn’t care as long as her head was intact. He was interested in results, not hurt feelings. Still, she lied, and hoped it was convincing enough. “Maybe you took your eye off me for one second…maybe you were rude to me. He wouldn’t like it if I was upset, you know.” 

It was clear she wouldn’t back down, and perhaps the man was just tired of her speaking. Either way, his mouth finally opened. “What do you want?”

She moved her eyes to the crowd, to the familiar face speaking to her assistant. “See that boy over there, Olyvar?” The man nodded and she continued. “I want you to keep an eye on him as well. Tell me if he does anything strange.”

“Strange?”

“If he talks to anyone unusual, does anything out of the ordinary.”

He nodded, leaving her in the hall as he walked back to his previous girl, resuming his role. Sansa smiled to herself, happy she was able to stand her ground, curious to see what he'd say about Olyvar. 

 

 +

 

An hour or so later, her phone buzzed. And why was he calling her so soon after they'd spoken?

“Littlefinger.”

The loud background noise from earlier was gone; she heard him clearly when he spoke again. “You think it’s Olyvar, then?”

So her new confidant had already informed him. “Your man called you?”

She heard a breathy laugh; his mood seemed much lighter than before. “Of course.” There was a slight pause, and Sansa wondered if he was indicating the call was finished. But then: “And Sansa?”

“Yes?”

The man hung up. She stared down at the phone for a moment before rolling her eyes at his retaliation. 


	50. rat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i wanted to stay  
> you don't mind, you're a true believer  
> take it up with the bad man  
> scribbling like the concrete fever

It wasn’t any of the girls, she’d nearly decided after a few more evenings. It didn’t seem to make sense for them to make a move against Petyr Baelish, to risk it, even if the price was good. They enjoyed their work, were paid well enough and they had no small measure of fear of Littlefinger. What’s more, Ramsay never spoke with any of them when he made his visits. In fact, he talked to no one at all, no one save Sansa.

For a moment she wondered if Petyr suspected that she was somehow involved. It would be an easy conclusion to jump to. She’d killed Ramsay, after all. His murder could have been to prevent the truth from spilling out of the cruel boy’s mouth. If he _did_ consider the possibility he did not show it, but then again he wasn’t showing much of anything; the last few days they hadn’t spoken. He was waiting for her decision, she assumed, waiting to see what she’d do, and using her new security team as informants in case anything was amiss.

She couldn’t deny it made her feel a little safer, the extra eyes in the crowd, surveying for danger. Not specifically for her, but for the girls around. There was a fear one of them might be targeted, in the same way Ros had been, to send a message.

 

It was before the club opened for the night, and Sansa was going over the schedule with her assistant when he approached her. The girl looked up to find Littlefinger’s man with his phone in his hand, bringing it up to show her. Sansa dismissed the other girl before taking the mobile herself, staring at the numbers there.

As she skimmed he explained. “The first set of times are all the phone calls he’s made while he’s been here. It seems a bit…excessive. The time at the end was when he stepped out to meet a man in the alleyway last night.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked up to him, handing the phone back. “Thank you for this.” She paused for a handful of seconds before asking her question, almost afraid to hear the answer. “Do you remember what the man looked like?”

He nodded. “He seemed out of place. Tall, long coat, no hair.”

_Oh, Olyvar._

 

She was sitting in his office. No, _her_ office. Hers. She must remember that. Littlefinger wasn’t there, and she was in control. The paper from Petyr rested directly in front of her, the only piece of clutter on the wooden desk’s surface. Her assistant had left moments ago to retrieve what she’d asked for, and Sansa was sure she had a few minutes to think before she arrived back.

She stared at it, still confused by the first string of numbers. It was too long to be an address, too short for a phone number. A code, perhaps? Something cryptic that only Roose would understand? But Casterly was a place, he’d said, and so the numbers must be related, she just needed to figure out how.

And then she remember why the name had seemed so familiar. Joffrey had a home on Casterly Road. It was one of the more affluent areas of town, and the boy had insisted on property there. _A good investment_ , she could hear the terrible boy’s voice in her head; she’d been sitting next to him when he signed the paperwork. But surely that house was sold and gone now, wasn’t it? She knew Cersei did not live there; her home was near to the company. If not Cersei, then who was the target?

She reached out and turned the paper over in her hand, as if the receipt on the other side might hold some telling thing that could help her. It didn’t seem to; the list appeared benign enough. Apples, lettuce, tea, cling film…nothing she thought would be used for harm. Toward the end, however, she saw he’d purchased a shipping box and strong tape, which struck her as odd. What was he sending? He didn’t seem the sort of man who would organise his own post.

But Sansa didn’t have time to think on it; the door opened and she set the paper down, moving to a stand. “Hello, Olyvar.”

“What do you need, Sansa?” He took a seat even as Sansa continued to stand, one leg crossing over the other. He was relaxed, a slight smile playing on his face.

Might as well cut to the chase, then. She wanted to see him tense. “I need you to arrange a meeting for me.”

He very nearly scoffed at her request. “Isn’t that why you have an assistant?” He uncrossed his legs, preparing to stand. “That’s not my job.”

It was Sansa’s turn to sit, then, reclining into the chair. It was a signal to him that the conversation wasn’t over; she watched him inch back into his own seat. “You’re the only one who can organise the sort of meeting I need.”

And there it was; his spine straightened, and she could see the worry seep in to the edges of him, even as he tried to mask it. “Who are you looking to meet?”

Her eyes were hard when she spoke, not breaking contact with his. “Roose Bolton. Tomorrow at noon.”

He’d given himself away with his reaction; a deep swallow, body going taut in preparation to flee. A boy forever concerned about his own skin, his own benefit. He did not have the skill in concealing it that she was used to. Or perhaps being around Petyr had heightened her awareness of such things. Either way, she could smell the guilt on him.

In what might have been a last effort to recoup, he countered. “What makes you think I could make something like that happen?”

She smiled sweetly at him. “I have faith in you, Olyvar. And so does Littlefinger.”


	51. noon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with your empty smile  
> and your hungry heart  
> feel the bile rising from your guilty past

She sat on one of the barstools, sipping on a small glass of whiskey. Her limbs were cold, heavy feeling, and she thought a bit of drink might do her well. Wearing a dark skirt and blue blouse, she was aiming for something mildly professional; she needed to be taken seriously. The liquor relaxed her form just slightly as she waited for him.

Her assistant had been dismissed for the day, and security wouldn’t arrive for several hours. One of Littlefinger’s men refused to be deterred; he stood in the small storage area behind the bar, out of sight from all. There was a small feeling of relief at the thought of another person with her, someone who might help her if things went bad. Still, she couldn’t help that gnawing, that longing in her chest, wishing Petyr was there with her.

 

It was well after her directed meeting time that she heard the door open and close. Sansa stood, willing her legs not to shake, willing the thought of Ros and her bloody head out of her mind. It would do no good for her now; she needed to be strong. There was no better time to start the game.

He wasn’t well. It was the first thing she noticed when he entered the bar. It was no virus or disease plaguing him, but a wearing, a thinning around the edges. His face carried a thick shadow of stubble, the coat she was so familiar with was littered with darkish stains. He was tired, and the cares around his face seemed deeper. His form was thinner as well; there was a gauntness about him, a sadness. 

The loss of a son, no matter how cruel or terrible, was something Sansa did not wish on anyone. And yet, there she stood, having murdered two separate sons, one of them his own. She wore so much blood on her hands, _too much._

The man looked around, obviously expecting more than just the girl in front of him. Even in the state he was in she could not help but feel the fear seep in. “Where’s Littlefinger?”

And of course Olyvar would have had to mention Petyr being present. Roose wouldn’t have agreed to a meeting with the girl alone. Sansa took a step toward him, still several feet away, keeping her eyes locked with his. “He won’t be joining us.”

He chuckled, and the sound was harsh to her ears; the man was unhinged. The lilt in his voice gave it away. “I assumed he would be here.”

“You assumed wrong.” He shook his head at her, turning on a heel and preparing to leave, but Sansa continued. “I have something that might interest you.”

Her hand extended to him, the receipt between her thumb and index. The man seemed ready to disregard it, to leave her there with her arm out, but curiosity appeared to get the better of him. An eyebrow raised as he rotated back, taking a few steps until he could grab the offering.

His eyes flitted down, a quick scan before Roose Bolton swallowed, reading the numbers more slowly a second time, his jaw tightening. “Where did you get this?”

She stood her ground, not yielding her stare. “You know where.”

“Your boss must trust you a great deal. This could get you killed.” He glanced up from the paper, giving her an odd smile. “Or is he your father these days? Lover? It must all be so confusing for you, keeping track.”

And so he knew; Ramsay was not keeping the information to himself. The question still remained whether he told anyone else. “It’s none of your business.”

A quick exhale, near to a laugh. “Lucky for you.”

She needed him gone. She’d done what Petyr asked, she’d given him the information. The image of her friend was persistent. He’d killed her, he’d been pleased with it. And the girl pretending to be Arya, they’d been so cruel to her…

She took a deep breath, not willing to break. “Are we done here, then?”

He nodded again, slowly. “And what is it you want in return?”

 _In return?_ Was the information so valuable that she stood to have the man before her indebted? There was only one thing she wanted that he could help her with; the rest she could do herself. “Cersei Lannister.”

The humour was gone from his face. Sansa knew she’d struck the only chord she needed to. “We want the same thing, then, little wolf.”

“I heard they killed your son.” Oh, what a competent liar she was becoming. _Petyr would be proud_. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” It seemed almost an afterthought, as if the boy meant nothing. He turned the receipt over, eyeing the list, and a new smile formed. “Ah, you little bastard. I knew it was you.”

Something about his glee unsettled Sansa, and she almost didn’t ask. “What do you mean?”

“He didn’t tell you, did he?” Roose sized her up, cocking his head to the side. “Guess you two aren’t as close as you thought, are you?”

The words were firmer the second time she asked. “What does the receipt mean?”

Roose smile again as he turned away from her. “You should ask him next time he has you on your back. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

 

It wasn’t until the afternoon had come and gone that she called him. She barely waited for him to speak before she said the words. “It’s done.”

The man paused, and she could hear nothing at all in the background. She wondered where he was. “When?”

It felt wrong somehow, to tell him she’d waited so long before contacting him. The sun was setting, her employees preparing for another night. “Just now.” A lie, but did it really matter?

He didn’t speak for another long set of seconds. “Come over.”


	52. floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you say you must be going out of your mind  
> that i can see it when i look in your eyes  
> you're always talking on the end of your tongue  
> sweep the ashes underneath the rug  
> you swear you're having just the time of your life  
> got you wrapped in pretty papers and white  
> why don't you tell me what you really want  
> instead of making up the same old lies, lies, lies

It was dark by the time she pulled up to the house. The walkway up was all shadows, leading to the dim glow that illuminated from above the front door, and she wondered if he did it so attention wasn’t drawn to his home. She could see several lights on inside through the curtains, an oddly comforting thought considering she was walking into the unknown.

The door opened before she had a chance to knock, but the man did not stay to let her in properly, instead staring at his phone and making his way through the foyer. And so she brought herself through the doorway, closing the door behind her and slipping off her heeled shoes next to a pair of polished leather brogues. She slid off her coat and hung it next to his just in time to see him turn to the left, still reading the message on his mobile.

She followed his path, tentative steps leading her along, passing the photo she remembered from her first visit. Furniture and decorations were sparse, as if the man had only recently moved into the property, although Sansa doubted that very much. The walls were pristine white, much like the exterior, and she wondered how a child could live in such a place.

And where was Robert? And where was his wife? The rest of the house was dark; there was no sound from beyond, no indication that anyone but the man was in residence. She peered down the hall to the right, but could see little without turning a light on, and she was certain Petyr wasn’t going to offer her a tour.

In the main room she found him sitting on a dark chair, not bothering to look up at her as he spoke. “Have a seat.”

In the corner the television was turned on to a news program, the volume muted. There were no other photos in the room. A newspaper rested neatly on the coffee table in front of the sofa, and as she sat down she took in the lack of photos, candles, souvenirs that often made a home in a room such as this one. Her toes curled, cold against the wooden floor, and perhaps it was the chill of the room that boosted her confidence. “Where’s your family?”

Finally the man pulled his gaze from the phone, although the irritation was plain on his face at the question. He shrugged at her, an eyebrow raised. “Not here.” When it became clear she wasn’t satisfied with his vague answer, her jaw set as she watched him, the man sighed and set his phone down on the armrest. “Robert is at boarding school most of the year. I get him for a few weeks and then he’s away again.”

It was refreshing, to receive an actual answer from the man. Now that she'd had a drink of it, she was desperate for more. “Is that difficult for you?”

“Why would it be difficult?” The man looked near to laughing at her, and she could feel her face redden. “He’s not my son.”

Still she pressed on, despite the twinge of embarrassment. “But your wife…his mother-“

“Isn’t here.”

His tone, the finality of it, made her squirm despite herself. Where was she? Who was she? It was something he kept so close to his chest, and she saw the same guarded look in his eyes when she asked about the old wound at his sternum. And she had no true explanation of that either, just a cryptic response weeks before.

For a moment she didn’t say anything, watching the floor intently, as if the wooden boards might grow roots and sprout leaves. But there was a reason he asked her to his home, _there must be_. And more than that, she wanted to understand more of what was happening around her.

It seemed she didn’t have to wait for long to find out. He leaned in his chair, elbows resting on his thighs, fingers loosely clasped together. “You lied to me.”

That caught her off guard, and she nearly stuttered when she replied. “Did I?”

He nodded. “When I asked you what time you gave the paper to Roose, you weren’t telling the truth, were you?” His voice was soft, his mouth barely moving at his words.

“No. I wasn’t.” A year ago she might have felt bad about the lie, but now she could muster no apology; she didn't _want_ to be sorry.

“You should be honest with me, Sansa. It’s in your best interest.”

He sounded like a teacher scolding a student then, and it more than grated her. “Is it, Petyr. _Is it?_ ” Her voice rose. “What a _relief._ I’m so glad someone has my best interests in mind.”

He took another deep breath. “I do. You might not believe me, but I do.”

Her blood might have been boiling, the colour in her cheeks could no longer be attributed to shame. “Then tell me what’s going on. Be honest with me: Where did I send him? What did Roose do with the numbers?” Her hands were fists on her lap, and she would not leave without knowing.

The anger didn’t seem to bother him. Petyr paused for a moment to check his phone, scanning the messages. With a smirk in her direction he spoke. “You’ll find out soon. It’s already happened. It’s done.”

He stood, then, and she noticed he was in jeans. It was odd to see him dressed so casually. It must have showed, because his smile grew as she took him in. The man took a few steps toward her until he was close enough to reach his hand out, his index and thumb taking hold of her chin. He tilted her head up to him as he bent forward, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Look at the television. It’ll be better if you see it.”


	53. couch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couldn't wait to cross that line  
> your hands were tied  
> to the last that you could find  
> it breaks you every time  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZfjysllZyg

Blue eyes flitted to the screen to her left; her perch afforded a perfect view of the television. The man in front of her dropped his hand, allowing her head to tilt so she could watch. A commercial was playing at the moment and the girl nodded in its direction. “Shall I wait, then?” She was still irritated, although the curiosity was fast taking hold, now that answers had been promised.

He looked to the television as well, a soft chuckle as he turned back to her. “Poor timing on my part, I suppose.” On of his legs moved forward, slowly sliding between her knees. And then the other, until her skirt began to hitch up and up, revealing more of her pale skin. “I guess we’ll have to find something to occupy our time for a few minutes.”

And what had changed between his journey from the chair to her? He’d been irritated, distracted by his phone, uninterested in her. Perhaps the closeness did it, ignited something in him that was dormant when they were apart. Whatever it was, he was different now. The expression she saw when she looked up to him was one of hunger, and she was sure the anticipation of whatever the news story was served to fuel that sentiment. “Petyr…” His name was a warning, but the man was already dropping, kneeling in front of her, his mouth tilting as he found the hem of her garment, guiding it further along her legs.

“Lean back.” His command, and something about the smug look on his face made her pause. She didn’t move, holding her ground against him, either palm planted on the cushions to keep herself up, disregarding his order.

_He laughed_ , he laughed at her then, entirely amused. Before she could react his arms came under her knees, pulling her toward him until she was nearly off the sofa. His mouth, no longer smiling, moved to her inner thigh, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there while his fingers toyed with the edges of her underwear.

Impatient, Petyr yanked the material down, leaving it on the floor. There was a moment while he worked that she could have pulled away, she could have left him there or told him to stop, but she found herself unable to move, unable to leave him.

How pathetic, that even in her fury she could not refuse him. That base instinct was overruling practicality, her arms and legs and muscles and skin attuned to him, waiting for him. She gripped the fabric on either side of her when his mouth reached her apex, delivering a slow lick between her legs. Her back arched, eyes closing as she sunk back onto the couch, as she let him toy with her, attempting to stifle any sounds she made.

He pulled back enough to speak, index and middle sinking into her. “Keep your eyes open. You need to be watching.”

Sansa did as she was told, eyes prying open to find the screen, to find him. It was intoxicating, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing worth paying attention to. She couldn’t tear herself away, her focus became him; his stare, his pace steadily picking up at each strangled noise she made.

The girl was getting closer, her breath heavy and uneven, and she was ready to reach that peak, that end, with his attentions. He could see it, how near she was, and with a smirk his lips left her, fingers still lazily curling inside her.

The man shook his head. “Not yet.” He leaned in again, not giving her the rhythm she wanted.

Did he want her to beg, to whine aloud for him? She was nearly desperate enough; her nerves alight with that desire, her entire form taut and ready for release. “God, Petyr, I’m close, I’m close. _Please_.” Her body bucked and writhed, but it only compounded his teasing, the circles he made against her slowing.

One of his hands dug into her flesh, keeping her from undulating her hips. “Shh-not yet, Sansa.” His breath was a warm torture as he spoke where his tongue had just been.

It was too much, it was cruel, and Sansa searched her lust-addled brain, attempting to find the words to urge him on. Begging hadn’t worked, and she wondered if she could incite him into letting her finish. She took in a breath as her spine curved, pressing herself further into him. “Have you fucked your wife on this couch?”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment she knew she’d gone too far. She thought he’d stop then, and kick her out of his home, out of his life. But strangely, thankfully, he didn’t. He didn’t say anything at all. Instead, he groaned, something close to a growl, devouring her anew, supplying her with exactly what she’d wanted from him.

And then she heard it. The story they’d been waiting for. Twyin Lannister found dead in his home. Shot in the head. Casterly Road. She turned to the sound and the screen showed flames; the house that was once owned by Joffrey had been set ablaze, and it seemed as if they were having difficulty containing it. There would be nothing left.

She couldn’t help the thought that came next, as she met her mentor’s gaze and saw nothing but pride. _I did that. Me._

Her hand found his hair, urging him to finish his task. And he did, moaning into her as tongue flicked her, fingers pumping and curling with a renewed, hastened pace. Her head fell back, no longer concerned with the fire, thighs tensing as she came.


	54. skirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the knife will fall  
> something will die  
> something will die today

He didn't give her time to catch her breath; he was pulling her down to the floor, pushing the coffee table aside with one hand as her back found the cold wood beneath her. Petyr moved to his knees, working at his button and zipper, his eyes not leaving hers. Sansa stared back, her skirt forced up around her waist, the wetness between her legs cooling in the air, and she still had so many questions. 

The man freed himself, one hand gripping him loosely while he leaned forward, his free palm finding the floor beside her head. He was idly stroking himself as he settled between her legs, the warmth of him enveloping her, surrounding her. She thought she already knew the answer, but she asked him anyway, the words quiet. “So the numbers were-“

“The security code to the house.” His mouth found her neck, teeth harsh against her soft skin, their clothed bodies shifting as they moved. Her legs parted as he slipped between them, sliding himself along her slit, teasing her. But she knew that tease would not last for long; she could hear his harsh breath, the controlled groans at her ear, and her thighs drifted further apart, the skirt entirely above her hips now. To see him, to hear him lose control was fogging her mind; her arms wrapped around him, spine arching up in anticipation.

Cersei Lannister was quickly losing her family members; her son, her father, and who else had Roose snuffed out in the interim? Petyr was helping her free herself from those lions, she knew, and giving her a hand of her own in the game. But it wasn’t enough; the half truths, the way he tested her and toyed with her without real answers. She needed _more_ , more information, more control, more of a handle on her own life. 

With a groan he sunk inside her, already beginning a rough, hasty rhythm. His hand gripped her thigh, angling her hips up so he could press deeper, harder, and the girl dug her fingers into his back to keep steady. It was easy to get lost in the feeling, and Sansa found herself letting go for a few blissful minutes. His hand stayed between them, toying above where they joined, a desperate, almost clumsy set of motions. He was already close, already near to his end, and that thought only served to compound her own desire. She angled her hips as he bucked, meeting him at each press, their breath mixing together, too rushed for mouths to connect.

One last, hard thrust and the man above her tensed, his mouth a silence moan. Her own fingers fell below her navel, bringing herself to her own end just after, her eyes closing in that familiar, blinding peak. And was all of this worth it? His touch, his help? But she knew the truth of it all; no one else would have been able to make that happen. No one else who would have kept her safe.

For long moments they were silent, catching their breath on the floor of his home. He kept her near after he pulled out of her, one arm resting lazily around her torso as he moved to his side. The television was a dull murmur in the background, the rest of the house silent and dark.

Her heartbeat had returned to a steady rhythm when she spoke. “So Joffrey is dead, and now Tywin…”

“Mm hm,” A mumbled response as he lifted himself atop her again, his mouth meeting her chest, leaving languid, open kisses there. She sighed, appreciating the sensation, and was this the kindest he’d ever been with her? It was a strange notion, how delicately his fingers grazed, directly following an orchestrated murder and a quick fuck. Although it was not unwelcome; it felt nice, for a moment, to hold onto something pleasant. She could almost pretend it was real. 

She sighed as he kissed her, fingers running along his temple. “And whoever else Roose has killed….”

He smiled into her collarbone, his own digits tangling in auburn. “A fair few.”

On the television the story continued; _Tywin is survived by his three children…_ “So what about Jamie?”

For half a second his grip tightened, and he opened his mouth to speak before shutting it again. Another pause, and then: “I’m handling Jamie.” He chuckled against her skin, as if he’d made a joke, working his way up to meet her jaw, her lips.

Brows furrowed, and eyes drifted down. “How?”

“Not yet.” His mouth brushed hers, and it was so close to affectionate that it caused the girl’s chest to tighten. “Not until it’s safe to tell you.”

And there it was again. “You don’t trust me.” It wasn’t a question. The girl had placed her trust, her life, in the man above her. It was clear to her that it would never be reciprocated. He would never trust her, and she was a fool to have hoped he would. 

He seemed almost sad for a moment, pulling away from her, moving to a stand. His hand extended to help her up and she took it, pressing her skirt down with the other. She could feel the seed dripping down her leg, and the man seemed to notice it as well. “Come on.” His fingers curled around hers, not letting her go, leading her deeper into the foreign home.


	55. sink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for continuing to read this, and for the comments and kudos!
> 
> i was going to post a drabble today, but i decided to do an actual chapter and i'll post the drabble later on...mostly because i wanted at least one of the P/S tagged updates on ao3 today to actually _be_ P/S...just ignore my complaining.
> 
> why hide your face from me?  
> why turn away?  
> all i wanna do is pull you closer and say...

She was in his room, and she couldn’t remember exactly how she ended up against the wall. The hallway had been dark, his hand served as a needed guidance when he’d led her to the room at the end. He’d flicked on a light, illuminating a small part of the space, giving the man an eerie glow as he watched her with eyes aiming to devour.

Her shirt was hastily lifted, tossed aside onto the floor before the man found her mouth, one of his hands gripping her wrist, pinning her to the wall while the other worked to rid her of her skirt. The kiss was slow, open, and Sansa did not know if she’d ever witnessed him in such a way. He was being tender, affectionate, and her first instinct was to respond in kind; isn’t that how a relationship is meant to be? Even if it was, she found herself out of her depth; her mind swam with skepticism.

Sansa pulled back after a moment, looking down to the uncomfortable coolness between her legs. The man noticed, letting go of her wrist, his index and thumb moving to her chin to lift her gaze back up to him. “Would you like to get cleaned up?”

She nodded, thankful she didn’t have to say the words as the man pointed to a door to the side of the room. Her legs slipped the skirt off entirely as she walked away from him, finally able to even out her breathing. She thought back to what Roose Bolton had said to her, about waiting until Petyr had her on her back to ask questions, and that’s what she had done, wasn’t it? Would he have told her about Tywin anyway? She wasn’t sure if the pang she felt in her chest was guilt or a desire to find out more, to dig deeper. Perhaps it was both.

The bathroom was simple, a sterile kind of white with towels and toiletries to match. The girl reached the sink, surveying herself in the mirror as she cleaned the mess between her legs. Her hair had grown out in the last several months, and she decided she would try and grow it longer. She looked older in her reflection; the girl who held a shaky gun to Joffrey was changed; she did not carry the same illusions about the world around her. Her hands would be more sure with a gun, her eyes would not be wide and full of terror.

As she thought about those differences, she noticed something seemed a bit off about the bathroom, and more, about the home in general. It did not _seem_ like a home; it had the feeling of a hotel or a way station; some place not well-lived in. The girl looked around, taking in the lack of floral shampoos or soaps, the single toothbrush on the holder, and the man had not been honest with her.

He was waiting for her when she stepped out again, closing the distance between them without a second of pause. His shirt had been discarded; the only piece of clothing left now was her bra, which was quickly removed by the man as he pulled her toward the bed.

And she let him. She let him guide her down, she let him slide atop her, settling between her legs, his mouth sweeping the slope of her neck. She let him, and then she took a breath and asked: “Where’s your wife, Petyr?”

He didn’t answer; he pulled back from her skin, his eyes sweeping over her from above.

Her eyes did not falter. “Prove to me that you trust me. Tell me.”

Again, he didn’t speak, but she could see something near to sadness in his eyes, and his fingers reached to thread into her hair. Sansa might have been the closest person to him; she might have dug deeper than others had been able to, or privy to more information, but there was no one in this world the man would trust entirely.

Maybe the same could be said for her as well. Sansa supposed time would tell. It didn’t matter, really; she knew the answer to her own question. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Slowly, as if he might have been reluctant to release that piece of information, the man nodded.

“How?”

His answer was quick, reflective, rehearsed. “Suicide. She wasn’t well.”

The girl paused, her palm brushing against his chest, over the the thin patches of hair there, over the thinned skin where the scar rested.

Her question was asked before she lost her courage, quiet and soft, afraid of the answer. “Did you kill her?”

His fingers still threaded into her hair, stroking the side of her head. The moment was strange; he was hard between her legs, their bodies twined, breath in sync, and Sansa _knew_ , she knew what he would say before he said it. “She wasn’t well. It wasn’t safe; she knew too much.”

And so he raised her child through a boarding school, he discarded his wedding ring, he fucked a girl young enough to be his daughter. And what happened when Sansa outlived her usefulness? What happened when she knew too much? It was barely a whisper when she spoke. “Will you kill me?”

“Never.” The girl must have been displaying her disbelief on her face, because the man continued. “I couldn’t.”

“Why couldn’t you? You’ve done it before.” She nearly laughed, a slight huff of breath betraying her. “It would be easy, don’t you think? You wouldn't even need a security code. I’m right here.”

He leaned in, tentatively, as if afraid she would refuse him. His lips grazed hers, barely pressing against her when he spoke again. “ _Never.”_


	56. dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you want religion, you want assurance  
> a resurrection, some kind of purpose  
> you have the vision, you opened your eyes  
> a complication, you should have looked twice

She kept telling herself it was a dream, and it _was_ a dream, she knew that for certain, even as the events played out before her, hazy and vivid all at once. She knew it wasn’t real because Joffrey was there, alive and red with anger, ready to hurt her. Even so, his cruel smile and twitching fingers seemed so tangible that she had to second guess herself, consider that perhaps this was the world she lived in. Perhaps the club, the man with grey-green eyes and wandering fingers, was the dream and she had been there all along, in that bloodstained room, dreaming of something different.

The girl shook her head in an attempt to maintain rationality; Sansa knew better than anyone else that Joffrey was nothing more than a rotted corpse now, and she wondered, in the strange nonlinear way she so often did in sleeping consciousness, whether the worms had even wanted him, or if they too had avoided his bitter, acrid taste. Maybe no living thing would want to use his skin and viscera for nourishment, maybe he was persevered perfectly, all life in the world afraid his malice would be catching.

Even as she knew she was in no danger she could feel her body tremble, that terrible muscle memory taking over, reminding her of every bruise, every insult to her skin and to her mind that he had inflicted through the years. They were in her old home, then, on the day her family was snuffed out in front of her. The bodies were gone, but the blood, oh the blood was still fresh; great, crimson puddles on the floor surrounding the two of them. And this time she had no gun, no weapon to defend herself from the boy who had taken every part of her, piece by piece, and turned it into nothing but hurt.

He was smiling when he took her by the throat, her back against the wall, the colours in the room sparking as her brain tried to make sense of functioning without air. She kicked, she opened her mouth in a silent cry as oxygen was denied her, but she knew, _she knew_ , that she was out of hope. Maybe she had never been meant to survive at all, and this was merely a correction.

Something snapped, then, and her eyes flicked open, acutely aware that the dream had finished. She was squirming and writhing, trapped in a hold, and for a moment she thought the sleeping scenes had been a warning, and that the boy had found her after all. It took several gasping breaths for her to realise the hold was a gentle one, and the words spoken were familiar, soothing things; her name and _it’s alight_ and _it was a dream, Sansa._

She stilled, sucking in the air around her as if it had truly been restricted until her chest evened out and her mind accepted that there was no danger. The girl was lying on her side, the room in front of her only recently familiar to her; _his home, his bed_. She could feel his bare chest along her spine, and the memory of the evening before flooded in. Dried seed remained between her legs, the echoes of their moans, the slick slide of skin on skin, rang through her head, the nightmare falling away to the present.

As if categorising the count she ticked off names in her head: Joffrey was dead and Ros was dead and Ramsay and Tywin were dead and Petyr had killed his wife, but not Sansa, he'd said, _never Sansa_. Was that a comfort, really, when so many other were sprawled out casualties on their path? And it was a _they_ , she knew it as she turned in his hold to face him, curling into his warm sternum. His arms enveloped her, pads of his fingers a soft melody in lieu of a song. She closed her eyes, not meeting his stare, and willed herself to sleep again.

 

Another dream, and Sansa found herself in the house again, the remnants of her family’s slaughter still slick on the floor. But Joffrey’s form rested on the wood covered ground in place of her father or mother, and she could see the bullet wounds she’d inflicted on him, still fresh and oozing. His eyes stared up to the ceiling, but saw nothing.

She wasn’t surprised to see Petyr in front of her then, looking down at the boy as if he’d known it all would happen, as if he’d been there himself when she became a murderer for the first time.  
He stared for long moments, until finally his eyes lifted to find her, a terrible and proud smirk lining his lips. He took a step, and another, until he nearly had her flush against the wall. Cool metal rested between them, pressing against her stomach. “You did well, Sansa. Only-“

He placed the gun in her hands, the feel of it heavy and familiar still, after all the time that had passed (or perhaps no time at all had passed). The thing, covered in blood, felt slick between fingers, but her grip was firm with his lingering assistance. His hands covered hers, and they move her to turn the piece, aiming it at his chest, holding it there for her almost urgently. When he finally opened his mouth again to speak it was with a sad, strange lilt that he said the words.

“Revenge is a lonely road, my darling, and it never really ends, but you know that by now, don’t you? It winds and twists and goes on until you forget there was a life before it. Until one day, Sansa, one day it will come back around and-“

That’s when he pulled the trigger. That's when she woke up. 


	57. folder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and what you found was gold   
> as black as dried blood

She woke up to his breath on her cheek, his lips grazing hers, a feeling so alien and oddly domestic that she wasn’t quite sure how to react. Of course her body leaned into it, lips responding automatically as he hummed into her mouth, before pulling back to appraise her. Unlike the girl, he was ready for the day, already dressed in his fine work suit, his skin smelling of a fresh shower. Two steaming mugs rested on the side tables, presumably _his and hers_ , and how exactly had it all happened, the strange foray into something that felt a bit too normal? As warped and twisted as it was, he looked happy, the tilt of his mouth when her eyes finally lifted to meet his, the eager way his fingers threaded against her hair, a gentle tug to guide her up. He was, she considered, waking her in the sweetest way he knew how. Still, her chest tightened, memories of the night before pushed aside but not forgotten, the fire, the dream, his apathy on all things.

All things save her, and why was she so special to warrant this kindness from him?

If he picked up on her inner turmoil he did not show it. “Time to go.” His said it not unkindly, perhaps, but Sansa heard it for what it was; he would not leave her alone in his house. He was making his exit, and so she must as well. The girl sat up, the sheet around her protecting the modesty she still clung to, but his eyes swept over her, hungry, all the same. For a moment she thought he might join her again, forget his job and the pressing matters at hand in exchange for the warmth of skin and more carnal compulsions. It was not an altogether unwelcome idea; she could forget then, for a short time, all the gritty details of the past and present.

She’d become so good at forgetting, she could almost pretend it had all happened to a different girl, a doppelgänger who had been given a family and had them taken away forcefully. That girl was something like a distant twin, a shadow of herself, erased altogether at times. A weakness, a painful memory that was better off buried and hidden away from the world. The Sansa she was now had no family, only an empty, hurting space in her mind where one might have been. Sometimes Petyr was there, filling that place in her heart, a substitute in his own way. But that was only sometimes, only when he was near and holding her.

He restrained himself from meeting her there, his stare instead resting a bit too long on her parted lips, on the slope of her neck. His hand moved to take one of the hot cups, handing it to her with one and pulling her up with another. The sheet fell as she stood, and he seemed unable to resist. He pulled her closer, mindful of the mug she held, breathing in her long and tangled hair in a deep, slow breath. He said her name, so softly, she had to wonder if he meant to say it at all. Her own fingers crept around his waist, keeping him there, and she knew she was a fool, a pawn, for letting him dig his talons so deeply into her.

Although the way he held her then, almost desperate, and she wondered who really had the upper hand. Perhaps it was her. Perhaps it had been her all along, and he had been the one bending like a reed for her. It was that thought that brought the girl’s mouth to his in a slow press, an ebbing thing at first that he chased, a silent plea for more, keeping her close. In her mind the warnings still rang out, as they always did, the danger of a man who was anything but good. Then again, did Sansa have an ounce of goodness in her anymore? Did the fact that the boys she had killed were rotten things negate the sin? She doubted that very much

It was a slow thing after that, getting around to find and pick up her clothes. And she felt him, watching, watching, as she did. At one point he left the room, returning with the remainder of her belongings, an eyebrow raised to pair with his smirk as her shoes were set down on the ground next to her feet.

It was then that the doorbell rang. All humour left his face in an instant, drained faster than water in a sink, and he turned on a heel, quickly moving away from her. She heard the door open, the girl on the bed slipping on her shoes, and she stood just in time to hear the thud.

“Fuck,” came his voice from the foyer, _“fuck!”_

She abandoned her second shoe and raced down the hall, assuming the worst as her mind had trained her to do from experience, just in time to see Petyr looming over something sprawled halfway into the house. And what a sad life the girl had lived up to that point, that she was unsurprised to find it was a body. Olyvar. Taped around his chest, surely covering the place where a wound lived, was a large yellow folder.

Of course she could guess who had done it. Her eyes could see what Roose must have known him to be, a loose thread, someone with a mouth who could use it against him, and someone who could all too easily be bought by another.

She looked to the man, the one who had kissed her awake, and she saw fury in his eyes. And she knew the Petyr she’d had this morning, the gentle one who had held her in the middle of the night, was gone again. She wondered if he would be back, and worse, she wondered which version of him she liked better. 


	58. railing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll take you under, then you will believe  
> how shocking I can be; won't know until you see
> 
> lights and colour, music pounding  
> taking over, so surrounding  
> lights and music, pressure building  
> feel it moving, reel me in

She had not known just how far the man’s scope stretched when it came to property in the city until, after a few weeks, she finally asked. And so he’d shown her a map, spreading it out on the dining room table after dinner one night. It was a years-old black and white blueprint of the entirety of the non-residential areas in town, the buildings on every block outlined as simple squares, neat and orderly. The only colours on the large sheet were the greenish highlights marking which structures he controlled, and simple skimming of the map gave her the impression that he owned nearly half of the town. She’d asked him how he did it, how no one else noticed and he’d smiled, seemingly proud of her question. There was a lesson after, as she curled against him, her lips brushing against his own as she lifted the sheet to cover them. He’d explained just how he managed to buy through others, to slip past the not-so-keen eyes of authority, and more than that, he’d spoken to her candidly.

The girl was at one of those properties now; a night club, something seedy and tucked away into what appeared to be an old warehouse. Her hands gripped firmly around the balcony’s railing as she leaned over it, peering into the dancing crowd below, her long, brunette wig falling around either side of her face. From her angle she was not a target for the strobing lights, the multicolour streams of brightness cascading to the rhythm of the deafening beat of the generic house music. Blue eyes stared into the mass of drunk and dancing fools, scanning and scanning until-

 _There_ , from her perch she could see him clearly; his lack of hair giving him away as she reached hastily for her mobile, calling the all too familiar number. She did not wait for a “hello” before speaking firmly as soon as the ringing ceased. “He’s here.”

A pause before he answered. “Are you sure this time?” The voice sounded skeptical, the thrum of another, similar club in the background ringing discordantly in her ear.

The girl sighed; the night before she’d made a mistake, the club too busy, the faces too generic, and she _thought_ it had been him. “Yes, I’m sure.”

She could hear his breath on the other end of the line picking up, certain he was making a quick exit from wherever he was. “I’ll be there in five. Stay where you are.”

And of course she should have stayed upstairs in her sanctuary, flanked by at least two of Petyr’s men. She should have, but she didn’t; Sansa needed to ask him, she needed to know _why_. Muttering to the guards about having to use the restroom before he arrived she slipped between them, feeling their stare at her back as she slipped into the hallway marked for women.

For half a second she wondered how much the hired men knew about her relationship with their employer; she still wasn’t convinced relationship was even the right word for what it was, although she could think of none better. Either way, they would know the pair ended up in the same home each night, they would see the way he wrapped his arm around her waist through the windows they silently protected from intruders. Did they hear the pleas he drew from her, for more, for faster? From their posts did ears pick up the way he spoke her name as a prayer when he came? She shook those thoughts away; it made no difference what they knew anymore, not when the man the two of them had been searching for was a floor below her.

Sansa had not been privy to the details regarding Olyvar’s body, only that it was gone after an hour, Petyr having dragged the limp corpse into the foyer before neighbours had a chance to see the grisly scene. She tried to ask, _was he buried in some anonymous plot, was he dumped in some awful river, is it a nice place for a lengthy rest or a foul one_ , but the man refused to answer her, his jaw set and irritated as they poured through the figures in the yellow envelope.

The folder that was contained inside the parcel was what she was curious about each time day turned to night, each time they received a call informing them he’d been spotted. The folder was what propelled her to leave the bathroom from the opposite door to avoid the men paid to guard her and slip downstairs into the mass below. Under her heels the floor nearly shook with a fast beat, with the collecting movement of so many bodies jerking and swaying, and it took several minutes to finally see him through the haze.

She caught his eye, and it took him a moment to recognise her in the tight red dress and mess of brown hair, but when he did he seemed almost impressed, boldly taking a step to hear her.

Sansa wasted no time; surely Petyr had arrived by now, looking for her, looking for the man in front of her. Her tone was raised, the question she’d been waiting weeks to ask on her tongue immediately. “Why? Why did you give us Tywin’s figures?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know? It was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand. You could have used them, or left them with the police. You could have destroyed them.”

He nodded. “I could have done those things, yes, but-“ He leaned in closely, reaching out to hold her chin between index and thumb. “You told me what you wanted. Now you can ruin her. Now we’re even.”

She pulled back from his hold, narrowing her eyes. So that was it, was it? He was simply returning the favour; she’d given him numbers and he’d done the same. “Cersei.” The bald man smiled, taking a step back from her, beginning to sink into the throngs and blinking lights. Her feet attempted to carry her forward but strong, unknown hands held her in place, forcing her to stay while the man escaped. “Wait!” Her voice barely carried over the music, but he heard, pausing for a second to hear. “What about Petyr?”

"What about him?" Roose Bolton simply stared for long seconds, watching her struggle to free herself, waiting for his answer. And he gave her one, a smile, something almost pitying, in her direction. "Do you think you could learn to love a dead thing, Sansa?"


	59. carpet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, little one, i know you've been tired for a long, long time  
> and oh, little one, i ain't been around a little while  
> but when you see me, wait

When arms finally let her go she ran, shoulders colliding with the dancing forms in the club as she rushed up the stairs, searching for the ones meant to guard her. It was pointless, she knew, to go after Roose by herself, and she could not deny his words had rattled her much more than she wanted to admit.

They hadn’t moved, the two men, and fury burned within her at their incompetence. “Where’s Petyr?” When blank stares were returned, her voice nearly inaudible against the music, she yelled again. “Turn it off! Where is he?”

Five seconds went by before the song ceased, the crowd below letting out a collective murmur of confusion and irritation at the quiet. It was a strange thing then, that Sansa realised just how much power she had being tied to Petyr Baelish. The two large men were watching her intently, waiting for orders. Had he hold the pair to listen to her, to follow her commands; was she an extension of their benefactor?

If that was the case, she would use it to her advantage. Digits flexed at her sides in and out of fists, thinking, forcing any worry from her mind. _Concentrate, you stupid girl._ “He should be here by now. Tell me where he was last seen.” Her voice was sure, there was no tremble in her fingers or toes, no hint of weakness.

One of the men paused, listening to the headset Sansa saw resting against his ear, his eyes on the girl. “There was an attack.”

“An attack?” No. No, no _no_. Not again. She could not afford any more loss.

He nodded. “Gunshots directed at his car. The driver was hit in the arm before they made it away.”

Her chest tightened; the words were soft, pulled from her with force. “And Petyr?”

He was silent again, focused on the messaged conveyed through the set. “No injuries. He’s fine.”

Why was that such a relief? The girl couldn’t help but let it wash over her, the almost pleasant warmth that came after hasty panic. She exhaled, a long sigh, but did not let it show to her minders; she could be strong, she could be like Petyr.

The girl ripped off her wig, then, no longer caring who might see her. Who was left, anyway? She was already under attack, it seemed. Her shoulders were still set back, spine straight, and she was already walking away, expecting them to follow. “Let’s go.”

 

The car didn't feel like a safe point, especially after the attack on Petyr’s vehicle, but she relaxed all the same, her form sinking into the seat. And more, if Roose had wanted her dead, he easily could have finished her in the club. No, there was more to what he was doing.

Her mobile vibrated in her hand, and she peered down to see an unknown number. Surely it could be him, she reasoned, not daring to get her hopes up. Maybe he had to get rid of his phone? Quickly, almost desperately, she pressed down with index to take the call. “Hello?”

“Hello again.”

Whatever tension had left her body returned in spades. Her arm reached to grab the man not driving, getting his attention as she spoke. “What do you want? How did you get this number?”

The Bolton man ignored her questions. “I forgot to tell you, Sansa. I know it was you. I know you killed him.” He sounded so nonchalant, so unaffected, and the girl shivered. “And if you hurt things that are mine, I’ll hurt things that are yours. Do you understand?”

How did he know? She tried to keep calm, forcing her voice to even out as she concealed her terror from the men in the car. “He was a monster.”

“Aren’t we all?” He chuckled. “Tell me, Sansa, and be honest…do you really think you’re the first redhead Littlefinger was keen to wet his dick in?” A _tsk_ could be heard through the line. “Don’t tell me you’re that naive. I thought you were more clever than that.”

Before Sansa could muster a response he ended the call.

 

The remainder of the ride was silent. They couldn’t go home (Petyr’s home, she corrected herself, although she’d been spending so much time there it was almost comfortable to step through the door), and so they drove to a meeting point, a hotel on the outskirts of the city. It was a dingy thing, half dilapidated and on an older road that might have functioned as a main street before the vast highways had been constructed. All the structures surrounding them seemed to have the look of buildings that at one time prospered, only to be forgotten and discarded in place of newer, better. For some reason, it made Sansa sad as she stepped out of the car and onto pavement, the flicker of the hotel’s security lights not providing any solace in the dark.

She tried not to rush, the heels doing wonders in that regard, flanked by the guards on either side who matched her pace. They led her to a back entrance, a door to the side they had a key to, and Sansa wondered just how long Petyr might have had this contingency in place.

Within, she was impressed by the state of the place. It was as if the exterior was a front, a method of deterring anyone from looking twice at the place. The building was still a hundred years old, she guessed, but it was clear it had been recently renovated, the floral wallpaper in like-new condition, the red carpet freshly steamed as she slipped her shoes off to give her feet reprieve. Even the furniture looked new despite the turn of the century design.

Did he own this place as well? Again, she was struck by how little she really knew of him as she was guided down a long hallway and into what she assumed was the finest suite. A few other men stood watch in the room, and the girl looked around, disappointed to notice the man’s absence. Where was he?

A throat cleared behind her, familiar, followed by her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO this is nearly done, should be three chapters left. Now, I also have two chapter-length drabbles that I've done, one is set when Ros was alive, and one toward the end...i'm just kind of trying to decide where to put them, because i don't really want to break up chapters with flashbacks. any recommendations?


	60. swallow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little drabble:  
> http://myrandar.tumblr.com/post/140175474303/some-rejected-tourniquet-chapter-from-a-while
> 
>  
> 
> we are the preacher  
> we are the choir  
> nobody is getting any higher

“Sansa.” And was that the same relief in his voice that she had felt not so long ago? The girl wondered when the shift had truly taken place, when the idea of losing him began to hurt. She knew what he would see when he looked at her, behind the feigned exterior she held; a wild, frantic creature on the brink of losing control. The girl was certain that even if the rest of the room did not notice it, he would.

He noticed everything.

Feet carried her in his direction, and he matched her step for step until his hands found her shoulders, anchoring her to him. But it wasn’t enough; arms wrapped around him, uncaring of who was witness to this show of weakness. “You’re not hurt?” Her face buried into his neck, taking in his familiar smell, her body relishing the way his arms enveloped her in response.

“Of course not.” A chuckle, an eyebrow raising at her words. “It was a hiccup, nothing more.”

Sansa took a breath, collecting herself before she spoke again, her voice even. “He was there, I saw him, talked to him.”

The man paused, pulling away in order to scan her face properly, all humour gone. “What did he say?”

She swallowed, scanning the hired men around her before looking back to Petyr. “He knows about Ramsay. I don’t know how, but-“ 

“Guess.” His jaw was tense, the impatience clear in his posture.

Her brows furrowed, she did not know what he meant. “It could have been anyone, Petyr. The police, a witness I missed…”

“The girl ran away, you said.” He spoke as if it was the only possible crack in their game. _Don't you see the pieces falling down around us?_

Sansa shook her head, _it couldn’t be_. “No. She wouldn't have. You weren't there...she was terrified.”

“The only thing you’re telling me is that they hired a very good actress.” He seemed convinced, the finality clear in his voice. “And if not, isn’t fear an excellent motivator? You know that yourself, don’t you?” He pulled away entirely, his arms falling back to his side. The cruelness was seeping in, she could almost see it changing him, the angles of his face sharpening, his posture straightening. 

The girl still couldn’t believe it. She’d seen too many liars in the world; she’d been living with, sleeping with one of the best. _I would have known, I would have known._ “Why? What would have been the point?”

“Think about it, you’re a clever girl. Would there be an easier way of getting closer to the Lannisters, getting closer to us?” He smiled, a vile thing, as he watched her. “You were tricked.”

“I still don’t believe it.” It was said almost to herself, but he heard it all the same. She saw the disappointment behind the greyish eyes.

“Then you’re a fool.” And there he was, Littlefinger again, replacing the man she preferred when trouble loomed. The words stung, and perhaps he saw the hurt; in the next breath he looked away from her, beckoning who she assumed to be the one in charge of their security to discuss their next move.

Now wasn’t the time to argue with him about it; they needed to move somewhere safe; the irritation was pushed to the side of her mind, saved for later. She moved to the window, even as one of the men told her to stay clear of it. There was nothing around, the older structures looming around her, their shadows providing no comfort.

How had she ended up where she was? Bound to a man far older than she, and much more terrible, surrounded in death? When had her dreams of a happy life gone so sour? Her mind ran through a list of people she could blame, and it stretched an impossible length. Joffrey, Cersei, her father. Her mother for giving her Petyr Baelish’s address…and of course Petyr himself.

Eyes closed as she listened to Littlefinger speak in hushed tones behind her. In the end, there was no one to blame, really. She sighed; perhaps she could only blame herself, and work to fix it. Her fingers curled into a fist on the windowsill; she would convince him it was not the girl, she would figure out who it truly was. She knew him, perhaps better than anyone, and because of that she had his trust, at least partially. The nights spent together were evidence enough of that. How easy it would have been to kill him, to slit his throat in the night, to escape and make a new life for herself. 

Why hadn't she?

A low shout near them startled her from her rumination. From her angle, when she flicked opened her eyes, she scanned the room just in time to see a man slip through the guards, the knife pulled from inside a long, black coat. A quick jab into his back, his green-grey stare fixed on her as he fell. It was a slow slide downward, almost graceful. Strangely, she found it fitting that even when injured he would drop with elegance. His knees landed on the soft carpet, and she was thankful the room did not have wooden floors. He did not make it any lower; he was lifted up then by the man who’d hurt him, his weakening, struggling form being carried away from her.

Sansa screamed, her instinct to run toward him, to stop him from doing anything worse, was halted by strong arms once more. As she fought against it she saw the conflict all around her; it seemed some of Petyr’s men had been offered a better price as the guards fought each other. She wasn’t sure if the ones holding her back were for or against her, not until she felt something blunt strike the back of her head, her vision going black before she could move a muscle, before she could chase after them and see if he was dead.


	61. holster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> second to last one, sorry it's a little short.  
> the last chapter will be much longer, and i cannot wait to finally wrap this one up!  
> also, i have an epilogue written as well, which i'm still debating on adding so.  
> (also, on the 14th of this month this fic will be two years old!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hunter, watching, waiting,  
> silence, listen, hello  
> blessing, treading  
> it doesn't have to end this way  
> but this is where we stand

The first thing she noticed, before she even stirred, was the feel of soft carpet on along her cheek. The world in front of her was black, her eyelids forced closed while she organised her frantic thoughts. Her body remained still, and she willed her breathing to stay even as she attempted to register what had happened. The hotel, the fight, the man who was meant to protect her attacked, and then…nothing.

She halted mild-inhalation. Where was Petyr?

Eyes opened, and around her tangle of hair she saw two boots, likely attached to an owner, standing several feet away. She tried to lift her gaze without his attention, getting to his waist and the firearm that lived here before he looked down to her, his own stare hard as he stepped toward her. The fingers on his right hand twitched, empty but prepared to grasp that weapon if he needed it, and the girl stilled in response.

She wondered if he would hesitate to shoot, if he needed to.

He cleared his throat, and she lifted slowly, enough to sit, enough to see his face. “You’re better off staying down there.” Was that a slight waver in his voice? He was younger than the rest had been, she saw as her palms planted against the ground, telling him without words that she would not move. She winced, the back of her head aching from the blow that had dropped her to the floor, her vision blurry for a half second before righting again. And he saw it, the falter from the injury, and he frowned, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

This was not a bad man. She was able to see that, having spent so much time in the presence of monsters. A villain wouldn’t have flinched at the pain of another. Roose wouldn’t have, Petyr wouldn't have.

Would she have? In truth, she did not know anymore.

There wasn’t time to sit and ruminate; she had to act. “Are you going to kill me?” The girl kept her voice innocent. _He’s not as strong as the others, that’s how he was bought._ Sansa could use that; she _needed_ to use that. She hadn’t survived all she had to be killed in this way.

He didn't answer her, not meeting her eyes. She wondered if he was waiting for someone else, or orders. If they’d wanted her dead it would have been easier to do it while she was unconscious. Perhaps Roose was waiting for something. Either way, she would use it to her advantage.

She stayed sitting on the ground, looking up to him with a soft expression, eyes wide. What would Petyr say if he were here, how would he get out of this? She needed to shift the balance, she needed to become the predator, even if the man did not realise. It would be better if he didn’t, really, it would be easier. Her voice was fearful for him, a knowing lilt to it when she began the game. “You know he’s going to kill you, right?” Her eyes fixed on him as he ignored her, or seemed to. But she knew she could do this, she could get out of this. “It might not be until after me, but eventually he’ll come after you. Men like Roose don’t care about anyone.” Her fingers grazed the stray strands of carpet as she spoke, as if to soothe her worry. “That’s all he’s been doing since he killed Tywin, you know. Cleaning up loose ends.”

And she was rising, then, slowly, until she stood before him. Her palms were faced outward, the air of a helpless girl as she saw a flicker of doubt in him. _There_ , there it was, he was slipping. One arm lifted to his bicep, a soft caress grazing downward. “What do you think that makes you, now that you’ve seen what he’s done?”

He was beginning to comprehend just where this betrayal would land him. _Good,_ she could almost hear Petyr tell her, encouraging her to continue with a touch of pride in his voice. Strangely, it gave her the motivation to continue as the man remained still, struggling with his conscience. “What good is money if you’re not around to spend it?” Her fingertips reached his hand, locking her fingers with his. His breathing was growing shallow, and was he scared? Was it lust? She let the confidence, the certainty run thick in her voice then, as she leaned in. “But you have a chance to leave now, don’t you? You can run, stay alive.”

Finally, the gamble, as their joined hands moved to his holster, to the item she needed to keep herself alive. “Just give me the gun.”


	62. courtroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE. THANKS FOR READING FOR (exactly) TWO YEARS:)  
> i have a smutty epilogue that ties up a few ends that i'm debating on posting so we'll see about that. 
> 
>  
> 
> another chance for me to learn  
> another bridge will have to burn  
> it's not about an eye for an eye  
> because the normal rules, they don't apply

The piece felt impossibly heavy in her hands as she stepped slowly through the door. It was a greater weight than she remembered from the last time she held a gun, and strangely, she thought the number of past kills might be the reason for the lead burden. The entrance at the side was unguarded, thankfully, as she crept inside, her finger on the trigger.

For once she wished the night would keep, the shadows providing a necessary comfort, as if the sun might expose her for that she was; a monster. It had taken hours to reach the spot she was in, before she thought to check the club, the pre-dawn light creeping over the horizon. And of course there were a few unknown cars outside when she arrived, windows tinted and licence plates missing; she’d been an idiot not to think of the location beforehand. The girl scanned the insides of the vehicles with the measly light from the sky, finding nothing save a sizeable stain of blood in the backseat of one of them.

She could guess whose blood it was, and she tried not to think about it. Panic would only serve to ruin her chances.

The location was possibly an advantage, she convinced herself as she moved, an attempt to remain calm with shaking hands. She could walk any inch of the place with her eyes closed and not run into a wall. It had been her home, after all, before her possessions slowly trickled into Petyr’s home, before the balance of nights spent in The Mockingbird tipped in favour of evenings in his bed.

 _No,_ she mustn't think of him. He could be dead, he could be injured too gravely to save. It didn't matter; she had to do it, she had to try and end the game.

Turning down the hallway, she picked up on the sound of voices at the end, and she was certain one of them belonged to Roose. They were in the bar, then, judging by the direction of the sounds, and was that a groan of pain she heard? Was it familiar?

He was there, Roose, flanked by two men, and the girl wondered where the rest of them were. Had they fled after the scuffle? Were their contracts complete once she and Petyr were incapacitated? Either way she took it as a blessing, right until her eyes fixed on the fourth person in the room.

_Petyr._

She could see the blood on him, the angle she watched from allowed that, and it was clear the wound was a severe one. He was standing but barely, propped up by one of the men while the other watched, waiting for the next order from their boss. When Roose nodded, a smug thing, the second one dug his finger into the open wound, and she heard the strangled, tired sound escape him.

The Bolton smiled as he watched, and Sansa felt the quiet rage seep into her. “Now Littlefinger, I can end this suffering. Just tell me where it is.”

Petyr said nothing in response, and it was clear Roose expected his silence. “I have nothing but time, Baelish. You, on the other hand, seem to be running out of it.” With that, his fist collided with her lover’s face, the crack heard even from where Sansa remained watching. She winced; she could almost feel it herself, she could almost taste the coppery crimson between her teeth. Softly, the bald man spoke once more. “Tell me where the money is.”

She realised it then. The folder given to them off the chest of a dead boy, the financial documents from Tywin’s burnt home. Sansa had assumed the figures, the embezzling were all fabricated to condemn the Lannisters. What better way to ruin them than to take away every cent they possessed? Petyr had never mentioned that the fortune amassed over decades might be a reality, or one that could be recovered. For a moment she let the thoughts run through her mind. Was Roose simply collecting his reward? Would he be content once he had the near billion in stolen money?

Suddenly she stilled, greenish grey finally meeting hers for a half second. He caught her eye; she knew he did even as he kept his own guard up. But it was there, he knew she was there.

Once he knew the girl was there and ready he sprang into motion. Petyr fell to his knees, then, and Sansa saw the move for what it was, her arms tensing in preparation. And it was a second later that it happened, the movements a blur to her as Petyr grabbed the ankle of one of the men and yanked, bringing him to the ground.

The girl was ready for it, hastening into the room with her weapon ready, the first shot missing the still-standing guard. The second did not miss, however, but was lower than she’d wanted. It hit his neck and the man swiftly fell, the wound releasing a stream of blood that promised a quick end. Petyr seemed to be taking care of the other one, but Sansa could see he was weak, his hold a faltering one as he prevented the man from reaching his firearm. She aimed with a surer hand this him, this one finding its mark at the stranger’s temple.

She turned and Roose was fleeing then, his protection dead. Her body managed to move just fast enough to see him run down the hallway, and Sansa refused to let him escape. The girl left Petyr, sprinting after him, intent on ending it all in that moment. And it was easy to do when the hallway was long and the door so far away for him. He hadn’t even reached the wooden entrance when she fired the remaining bullets at him, felling him with the first.

 

Sansa took a breath. It felt like the first in days. 

 

 

 

-

 

She sat on the stand, her red hair spilling along her back against the white blouse she wore for the occasion. Something smart, _something white_ , he had told her. The girl was meant to look as innocent as possible, _and a few well placed tears wouldn’t hurt_. A tale of woe, truly, white lies covering up the seedier details of the past year, painting the picture of a horrible Lannister boy and his family, of murder, of her own survival.

In the end, she exited to the sounds of the jury members sniffling sobs, mirroring her own cheeks tracked with salty water. Her eyes never once fell on the blonde woman’s face.

He was waiting for her outside; the man wasn’t allowed in the courtroom. How he managed to weasel his way out of being implicated was beyond her, although she guessed he was smart enough to not allow himself to be linked in any way to the embezzling, to the blackmail or harassment that had let the Lannisters prosper in their position for so long. She was certain he would have looked innocent to it all despite his role within the company.

It made her proud. It made her wary.

Petyr leaned against the wall, and she knew the position of leisure was a necessary one; it was clear as soon as he took a few steps toward him, the uneven gait telling a tale of lingering pain. They told them the limp would go away with time, once he healed properly, but the man refused to rest, instead running through mock interrogations with her for days on end, ensuring she would say the right things to put Cersei Lannister away. For his trouble he slept little, instead wincing as he paced, as the girl worried over him.

His hand lingered briefly along her back as he guided her toward the exit, pausing for a moment to ask the question that she was certain had been plaguing him since the trial began. “How did it go?”

She paused for a moment, reviewing it all in her mind. “Well, I think.” Even now, even after all she’d done and might do, at least this act might have made her family proud.

Sansa felt the smile from behind her, she heard it in his voice. “Did you charm them, Sweetling?”

The girl did not answer, instead letting out a relieved sigh. Was it over, now, truly? She felt his hand brush her waist, the most contact he would be willing to steal in view of the public, and she could not help but lean into it. “Can we go home now?”

“Not quiet yet.” She turned to look at him, seeing one eyebrow raise to match the tilt of his lips. “One more stop, but I think you’ll enjoy this one.”

 

 

 

-

 

He sat patiently, his spine perfectly straight, hands resting comfortably in his lap. There was a hint of a smile there, directed at no one as he stared at the glass barrier in front of him. His fine shirt covered the wound that still healed, the skin sewn back together, a partner to match a much older injury, but he did not feel the same distain for the imperfection this time around. In some twisted sense he felt almost noble for bearing it, like a knight in stories heard long ago.

A soft chuckle to himself before long minutes passed, and still his temper was unprovoked; he had nothing but time. He would wait hours for this moment if he needed to. He had won, and that victory was one that gifted him with endless patience. It gifted him with the sweetest taste on his tongue, one that reminded him of _her_ , of the girl waiting outside for him. It gifted him with wealth, with a perfect view in which to watch a mighty stronghold fall at his push.

It did not, in the end, take hours. Perhaps fifteen minutes later the locked door was pressed open, a low beep indicating it was an intentional thing, and three bodies emerged into the cage of a room in his vision. The woman was a shell of the powerful leader she once was, her hair tangled and orange jumpsuit ill fitting. He wondered which death had been the final blow. Not the son, he knew, and her brother was still alive, although he was publicly removing himself from all ties with the family. Perhaps that was what broke her. Sansa had told him the rumour was that Cersei was the one to order his hand cut off (of course, they both knew better now).

When she sat before him and picked up the phone on her side she almost looked relieved. _Poor thing._ “Littlefinger.”

Petyr tried not to wince at the name when his own ear met his phone; he did not think he would have to endure it any longer. “How are you holding up? Is there anything I can get for you?”

“You can get me out of here.” She leaned, her voice low. “Whatever you want, control of the firm, money, name it.”

He smiled sadly. Inside, adrenaline coursed, and how long had he waited for this? “From what I hear you currently lack the capability of giving me either of those things, dear Cersei.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Give it time. As soon as I’m free…” She seemed to lose her train of thought, and Petyr wondered if she was losing her mind. “I’m going to kill her.”

He feigned confusion, but it was a half hearted thing; she was no threat to anyone any longer. “Who?”

Her voice rang with impatience, with illness. “The Stark bitch. The second they release me, the very second…”

As if on cue, and Petyr might have laughed at the sheer timing of it, the door cracked open behind him.

She was out of Cersei's view, the barriers on either side of the man keeping her a secret for the moment. “I told you to wait.” He tried to make it a chastisement but failed; this was an unplanned opportunity to twist the knife, to press it deeper. And of course he would take any chance he could get. Why had he not thought to do this from the start?

“I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter yet. She’s here now, why don’t I introduce you?” With that he beckoned her forward, and Sansa stepped into the woman’s vision. At first Cersei seemed disinterested, beginning a bored protest at meeting some unknown child, but a flash of red and her eyes widened, fingers tensing on the receiver.

Gritted teeth watched the girl make a perch of Petyr’s lap, an auburn eyebrow raising as she leaned over the man and into the phone’s lower half. “Hello, Cersei.” And what a clever, perfect girl she was. He could scarcely help himself from sliding his hands along her side, from breathing her in. 

“You-“ The woman stammered, fury in her eyes, all lingering lucidity gone. She leapt up, moving to stand before the guards had a chance to reign her in. “I’ll kill you!” Fists pounded on the glass and Petyr gripped his daughter tightly around her waist, humming against her pale neck as greenish-grey remained fixed on the frantic Lannister.

The phone was abandoned in favour of brute force as the large men hauled her away from them. Her lover watched her stare ahead until the woman was out of sight, his arms still protective around her. And it was barely a whisper he heard, but it was clear all the same, her parting words to the woman she would never see again. “Goodbye Cersei.”


	63. Chapter 63

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i actually cut a bit of the smut out, but here it is! thanks again for reading:)
> 
>  
> 
> he left the tallest peak of your paradise  
> buried in the bottom of a canyon in hell,  
> but I swear I’ll find your light in the middle,  
> where there’s so little late at night, down in the pit of the well.

The campus was small and secluded, far away from the nearest city, nestled in woods and quiet. That was the main appeal of the school; the distance, the solitude. She could get away from it all for a while, she could learn uninhibited, she could make friends who did not know her by her last name. She could be free.

Although there was a part of her, more than a part of her really, that didn’t want to be free. There was a string, invisible but always present, threatening to pull her back in, to guide her to that familiar place and those memories. She sometimes tried to tuck far it into the back of her mind, to push it away and try her hardest to forget, but she never really could; the string _pulled._

The one who held the other end of it was nearer than she knew.

It was cold for the time of the year; autumn had not yet rid the trees of their leaves, although the browns and reds were fast replacing the greenish hues. She walked with two other girls, one of them rattling on a story Sansa was only half listening to. Her head nodded at the right inflections, she mumbled “uh huh” at just the necessary parts to keep her talking.

Until she stopped abruptly, the two others taking a few more steps before realising they’d lost their friend behind them.

He was standing there, so out of place amongst the younger crowds, although most might have confused the man with a professor. He was dressed well, an added dark coat and blue scarf (a gift from her, if she remembered correctly) to battle the chill in the air. But she remembered her act then, and the girl took a few hasty steps toward him, nearly breaking into a run. “Dad!” Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as soon as she was near enough, taking in the man’s scent, making sure he was really there. He’d never visited, not once after they’d first dropped off her belongings. She’d always been the one to make the journey back to see him; summers, holidays, the typical familial excuses in order to keep up with the charade.

One hand left his side, the right, coming around her waist. It was a quick thing, so entirely platonic, but his smile betrayed it all as she pulled away. “Sansa.” The girl hoped her friends were not close enough to see that hungry stare he did not try to hide.

“What are you doing here?” She said the words in time for her friends to catch up to her, more than a little intrigued to finally meet the mysterious father she’d always mentioned.

“Do I need a reason to visit my favourite daughter?” He chuckled, the way a real parent might, that lustful glint from before nothing but a memory that warmed her face as she looked back to the girls that had come to join her. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your school friends?”

The greetings were made, and Sansa noticed there was no routine invitation to have either girl visit her home for a weekend. Her friends seemed bustling with questions, and she expected to be assaulted with them as soon as the three girls were alone again. Of course that could wait; her father politely asked to steal his daughter away for the day, _a little dinner with your lonely father_ , he said, and the girls all laughed before they parted ways. 

When she was certain they were out of earshot she tightened her fingers around his as he led her away from the buildings and toward the parking lot. “What are you doing here, really?” Feet slowed until he was forced to turn to look at her. “Is something wrong?” And why wouldn’t that be her first assumption, considering what they had been through together?

Her father smiled, his eyes alight in a way she rarely witnessed. “Not at all. Quite the opposite, but it’s a surprise.” It was an infectious thing, the energy that emanated from him, and she allowed herself to be guided once more.

He opened the door for her before moving around to the driver’s side, slipping behind the wheel but making no move to start the car. Instead, she watched as he leaned toward her, his eyes growing darker. She took that hint, meeting his mouth as soon as he was close enough, relishing the taste of him after the lengthy absence. He hummed into her mouth, his fingers threading into her hair, every inch of him betraying that he’d missed her. And could the same be said for her? He would see it, feel it, she knew; the way she returned his movements with equal fervour, the way her own arm wrapped around his shoulder to keep him near.

Sansa thought it would stop there, after a proper greeting with teeth and tongue, but after a moment she felt his hand slide down her clothed stomach, slithering inside her coat and under her jeans as soon as he pried the button open.

She gasped into his mouth, one last slide against his lips before she pulled back no more than an inch, his breath hot on her cheek. “Someone I know could walk by, _father_.” Still, she made no effort to push him away, her legs inching apart a bit more

 

 

and did she think of him as her father in these moments? A sicker side of him hoped she did. Perhaps he _was_ her father, giving her life, giving her knowledge, giving her pleasure. He smiled, serpentine, when he found the dampness there, the proof that despite the boys she was surrounded by, the new, young things that might promise her normal or happy, she was there now, wet for him, wanting him.

“Let them see.” His fingers teased as she whimpered, his mouth open along her neck, murmuring encouragements she did not need while her form slumped to allow her hips to lift, to begin the chase for her pleasure. The angle was better, then, and he was able to slip lower, index and middle sinking into her while he palmed her sex. That tightness, that familiar heat he’d missed, and the man could not help his own groan into her pale skin. From the corner of his eye he saw her own blues close, acquiescing to his words, uncaring of any passers-by as his pace picked up, dictated by her cautious, urging whispers. Oh, how perfect she was.

She’d always been perfect for him, hadn’t she? And maybe he had known that from the moment she stepped into his office that first time, damp with rainwater and utterly broken, utterly beautiful. Maybe even before that, maybe always. It seemed reinforced each time he felt her, tasted her, each time she shuddered around his fingers or cock, each time she keened his name.

His name was a sigh this time, not a keen; she tensed around him in silent pleasure, her mouth a soundless cry to not attract attention. And after that sigh he took her mouth once more, drinking in the _Petyr_ from her breath, his kiss slow and exploring even as his own press of need lingered. No, _not yet._

In the back of his ever-working mind he kept that doubt, that fear that came with _having_. Now that he had her, know that he had the things he wanted, he was vulnerable in a way that he never was before. And so they could not see, they could not know. Finally, a risk he dared not test. He would leave in the morning, the words so near to the tip of his tongue but never spoken. _Come back with me for good this time._

“Was that my surprise?” Her voice was sleepy, sated as he pulled back enough for her to speak, his hand finally leaving the warmth between her legs to caress her jaw, leaving a streak of damps there he could not help but smile at, appreciating.

“Not at all. You’ll like my other one better.” He could barely keep it in, the secret thing he drove a lengthy distance to tell her. The plan had been to wait until they’d made it to the hotel he’d booked for them, to give her a proper area to move around after she heard, but that idea was cracking, slipping, until he changed his mind entirely.

A mobile phone was pried from his pocket, the one he was never without, and Sansa looked at it with narrowed eyes as he handed it to her. “You’re giving me your phone?”

He chuckled. “No. Here.” A post-it note with a scribbled set of numbers written in his handwriting was placed in her other hand. “Call it.”

She did not hesitate to dial, the curiosity she still held after years of grief was endearing as he watched her, proud. Years of searching, of false leads and impostors and hope lost entirely, and finally he’d found what he’d been looking for.

He knew when the younger, brown haired girl on the other end of the line picked up. He knew because he saw Sansa's eyes go wide, her mouth agape as she recognised the voice from the deepest roots of her memories. Petyr smiled, and perhaps it was a real one this time.


	64. rooftop (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...i have this little follow up to add, and i wasn't sure where to post it so i thought i'd just tack it on here. i have gotten some truly lovely messages about this fic and i thought this up over this weekend. the second part will be posted in the next few days.
> 
> and thanks again! i kind of figured this silly fic would be forgotten after a month or so, so it's really nice to hear there are new readers/old readers who are going back and rereading. 
> 
>  
> 
> ps: next chapter will be like 90% smut when it's done. oops. and i think i'll do a petyr POV  
> pps: sorry if it's crappy, i feel like i've been out of this verse so long i've forgotten how to write it!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> in lieu of lyrics: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-THaAP322TU

Arya refused to stay with him, _with them_ , and she could scarcely blame her. Despite what Sansa knew to be true about the man she chose, she did not hold any illusions regarding how he was viewed by others. The news portrayed him as a Lannister man through and through, albeit naive to the more dubious inner-workings of the company, and the level of caution her younger sister held was both healthy and wise. She was proud of the young woman the girl was becoming. Brave, wary, strong; the traits she would surely need to survive.

It had taken Sansa longer, in retrospect, to acquire such things. It had taken help. Had Arya sought and found assistance, or were those terrible truths learned alone? She hoped the former, suspected the latter, judging by the girl's guarded limbs, the way her grey eyes shone a bit too sharp. 

At first, the older girl found it difficult to carry on even the simplest of conversations. Arya Stark was different in their reunion, colder and more distant, but she refused to blame her for that; they’d both changed so drastically in such a short time, and it seemed they both knew the road ahead would be a tenuous one. So they began with memories, with sharing just what they had learned about the locations of their other siblings, or of those they loved. The girls did not talk about the years spent apart in any depth; they weren't ready, and they might never be. Regardless, Sansa was undeniably pleased by the reconciliation; it was so good to see her, to make up for the times spent fighting and the time spent apart.

And she was pleased with Petyr, for finding her, for arranging it all with no ulterior motive save making her happy. More and more he seemed to make such moves; kindnesses for her and no one else, even as he continued to rise in the rubble left by the lions. He was still a monster, she made no mistake there, but not to her. Never to her.

She no longer doubted him.

 

Sansa found herself alone in the hotel they shared one evening, when Arya decided to catch up with an old friend. A week had passed since she’d left his home to meet with her kin, and the distance was beginning to wear on her. Strange, after years spent away at school with naught but weekends to tide them over, that she missed him as much as she did then. She could almost feel his arms wrapped around her, his voice low as he muttered filthy promises in her ear, things no lady should ever hear pass from a man’s lips. Her skin warmed at the memory.

It had not taken her long after that to make a decision.

Feet carried her to a familiar street, a door she knew too well. The building was still unmarked yet buzzing with people. Years, and nothing had changed. Some of the women remembered her and offered greetings, others did not recognise the young girl who walked into the establishment with purpose, and she ignored their skeptic glares.

She headed toward his office but did not find him. Instead, her old assistant sat at the desk, typing away at the laptop in front of her. The woman must have been the one who took over after everything happened. She found herself glad someone else had assumed the job. He had known better than to ask that of her. 

After after a few moments of casual conversation, Sansa asked for his location, and the easy response caused her brows to furrow. The roof? She couldn’t hide the confusion as she questioned further, the woman at the desk responding with nothing save, “See for yourself. A lot has changed since you’ve been here.”

 

She’d walked the steps a thousand times, although the first time was the strongest memory she possessed. The girl could almost see herself still, following a red haired woman, asking after a man who her mother promised would help her. Her limbs tensed in recollection, of how frightened she’d been, soaked from the rain and numb from heavy loss. Her worst moment, and he had been there for it, hadn’t he?

Sansa sifted further through her mind’s recesses. Surely she had expected some kind, old man, someone who would die to save her, someone like her father. Who else would Catelyn Stark entrust with such precious cargo, her own daughter? But she knew better now; those men do not live through the sort of wars that waged, and Petyr was the greatest gift her mother could have given her. He might not have been a good man, but she was alive, and cleverer for it.

And the poor girl loved him. Nothing and everything had changed, and there she was, seeking him once more. Always seeking, always finding.

The apartment was bare, and Sansa felt a pang of sadness at the sight. Of course it could not remain decorated for Ros forever; she no longer needed it. Still, she wondered where her things were now, tossed in the trash, donated away? She would have to ask him; she wanted something, a reminder, a token. Ros would not be forgotten. 

She did not look around for long; it hurt to, and she was keen to see just what had changed besides an empty, half-remodelled apartment. Her eyes focused ahead and she saw the next clear newness ahead of her. Her old assistant was indeed correct; he had plans for the roof, it seemed. New steps had been built where Ros’ room had been, leading upward. Assorted set of paints and building materials littered the walkway, half of it covered in dark blue tarp.

And she did what she intended to do; she found him, at the top, leaning against the brick of the rooftop, leaning over the edge with a drink in his hand. Petyr turned when he heard the footsteps, and for a moment he did not hide the surprise at her presence. “Sansa.”

He smiled. 


	65. rooftop (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I'M DONE. Really this time.  
> Thanks for reading everyone! It's been so much fun to write this:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> carve me open, love  
> and show me all the things you want

She moved forward until she was next to him, reaching idly for his glass to take a drink. He relinquished it easily, a leer left unhidden on his face as she took a small sip, letting it sit on the edge in front of them after she’d had her fill. The drink did little to heat her cheeks in comparison to the way mossy grey bore into her, the question writ plain on him. _Why are you here?_

“Arya is out for the night. I know you’re busy but,” the girl leaned her hip into the cold barrier beside them, the night air a relief to her senses, “I missed you.” Simple, for a relationship that was nothing but.

And that was enough, and hadn’t that always been enough? Even at the beginning it had been clear, those first movements amid hunger and trepidation, fleeting kisses that begged for more; she would want no else, and he would want no one else. He pulled her close and turned her slightly, settling her until he could slide behind her, pressing his chest to her back. Arms enveloped her, and she could feel his breath along her hair, taking in her scent as if seeking to commit it once more to memory.

She sighed as he brought one hand down to graze her thigh, lifting her skirt while the other brushed the underside of her breast. A deep inhalation into aubrun locks and, “I missed you as well, my lovely girl.” Sansa could feel him beginning to harden against her already, and she pressed back in a tease, pulling a soft, burning sound from him. “My sweet, perfect girl.”

He reached for her underwear, yanking it down below her knees until she could slip out of them. “Here, Petyr?” Surely no one could see them from so high, but it left her with a feeling of being exposed. Although another moment, his fingers sweeping along her folds, and she found it difficult to remember why she’d felt anything but those familiar digits. She gasped, reaching back to find his jaw as she turned her neck enough to kiss him. Mint and whiskey mingled as he met her, open and wanting, and she savoured the taste of it, of him.

He broke away after a moment, index and middle sinking into her as he finally spoke once more. “Can you see it? Look around.” She could barely focus, if she was being honest, but she forced herself to keep her eyes open as she panted shamelessly into the city’s landscape, her hips grinding into his working hand. Distant lights twinkled all around them, the promise of life, of a future. “Ours. It will all be ours. Yours, and mine.”

He paused then, his fingers stilling in the warmth of her. “Do you want it?” Perhaps he needed to ask the question. Was it a weakness on his part, a desire for some confirmation that she still wanted him? Or was it a final chance to leave the life that had been placed in front of her, now that she had a piece of her family back? Sansa didn’t know for certain, and worse, she did not care. Her choice had been made the night her family died, and again the night Ros died, and a thousand times since. It had twisted her from the childish creature she was before, and into something more like himself. She could not say she missed that version of her as much as she thought she would.

In the end, there was no choice, not really.

Sansa turned, his fingers slipping out of her without a word, and when she faced him she saw a hint of worry. The girl did not leave him to remain concerned for long; her answer was on her lips just before she met his, her fingers reaching for his belt. “Yes.” She wanted it, she could not return to a normal life, a helpless life. The power to change, for the better or for the worse, would be theirs.

Small fingers freed him, desperately reaching as he backed her into the brick barrier, lifting a leg without pause. Her name was a whisper, a groan as filled her, and she could not help but return the sounds. Seated fully, he stopped, remaining at the hilt. In his eyes she saw adoration, relief, and perhaps something like love a haze around the edges as his mouth tilted in a true smile. Another second and he kissed her, his tongue sliding in effortlessly in a moment of strange respite. He was around her, entirely, and she felt strong, she felt safe, she felt whole.

The moment passed; Petyr was rarely so sentimental. It was a terrible thing, to want someone so completely after all the time that had passed. Her leg wrapped around his torso as they established a quick, brutal pace, and there should be nothing romantic about the way they were rutting. They weren’t moving with care; Sansa’s back ached as he pushed into her again and again, and she was certain her nails dug too sharply into his shoulders. But it was perfect; it was what they needed. A final, brutal consummation; a pact signed in the most passionate pain.

It did not take long to feel that building peak, and when she reached it her clenched around him, toes curling as he followed suit, holding her with a tightness she was unfamiliar with.

They remained there for some time, nuzzled against each other, whispered plans of their future lost in the wind.


End file.
